


regrets of a tour guide

by serenfire



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Humor, M/M, Phichit! on Ice, Yuri Plisetsky learns to be nice, and becomes Victor's tour guide while Victor becomes his coach, and literally falls into Victor's arms, the AU where Yuuri joins the Phichit on Ice show after losing the Grand Prix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:43:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9064612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenfire/pseuds/serenfire
Summary: Yuuri is the first to recover, scrambling up and lending the man a hand. “I’m so sorry!” he gushes. “Are you okay?”The hood of the man’s jacket is thrown off, and he takes Yuuri’s hand gratefully, his shoulder-length silver hair fluttering like a dream. “I’m fine,” he assures, and Yuuri may have gotten a concussion, because he swears the man looks just like--“Oh my god, Victor,” the short blond kid next to him doubles over laughing. “That was just like a rom-com! I can’t believe you actually caught the pig as he fell.”--Victor Nikiforov.  (In which Yuuri falls into Victor's arms and can't seem to get untangled, featuring the Phichit! on Ice show and Yurio's disapproving frown.)





	1. choreographed dabbing

The banner proclaiming ‘Phichit! on Ice’ is finally hung from the ceiling in front of the ice rink and even as Phichit himself applauds, Yuuri’s gut sinks. Only one month until opening day.

“Yuuri!” Phichit calls, pulling out his new Samsung Galaxy that hasn’t exploded yet. “I need a picture with my favorite leading man in front of the banner!”

Yuuri adjusts his glasses and stands up from the bench beside the rink, gliding across the ice to pose front and center, next to Phichit who is extending the selfie stick he carries with him everywhere he goes. Phichit leans his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, sticking two fingers up in a V shape and saying, “Chezi!”

Yuuri forces himself to grin over the rumble in his uncertain stomach and copies the motion, also mumbling the Chinese word for eggplant as Phichit snaps the picture.

Phichit collapses the selfie stick like a pro and says, “Can you believe it? Thirty days and then the audience can see all of our hard work! Don’t worry, Yuuri, you’ll do amazing.”

Yuuri smiles, but even Phichit can tell it’s forced.

Construction crews move in the background, sizing up dimensions for Phichit’s decorations. Yuuri has seen the concept sketches--multicolored drapes surrounding the ice rink of every color, spotlights on the performers on the ice, speakers all around to create surround sound to keep the audience, especially the children, in the thick of the action at every moment.

Phichit seems to notice that Yuuri isn’t responding. “Here, sit down,” he says, skating over to the barrier and they sit on the same bench Yuuri was resting on just moments earlier. “Yuuri, are you okay? Yesterday you were happy during practice--is it something I said? Do you not like the color scheme?”

Yuuri bites his lip and adjusts his glasses. “It’s all just moving so fast,” he admits. “Yesterday this was just a rink and today it’s an arena.”

“But you’re no stranger to arenas, Mister Made-It-To-The-Grand-Prix,” Phichit teases, gently elbowing him.

Yuuri doesn’t respond.

Phichit’s face falls. “Oh, is this about your previous experiences on the ice?”

“Maybe,” Yuuri admits.

Phichit bites his own lip. “Is this about your anxiety?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, you don’t have a solo skate on my show,” Phichit tries to assure him. “Just some background footwork and the pair skate with me for the finale.”

“That’s the problem,” Yuuri says. “The pair skate.”

“But you’re prepared! Only one jump, and it’s a triple.”

Yuuri looks at him. “In the Grand Prix, I couldn’t even land a triple.”

“Oh, but the whole world won’t be looking!” Phichit says. Yuuri knows his best friend is just trying to cheer him up, and he wants to protest that his anxiety doesn’t care whether or not camera crews circle the rink to record every mistake for the entire world. He still isn’t ready to do the pair skate.

He misses Phichit’s next words in his reverie. “Besides, someone’s coming today that might be able to help you out of your slump.”

Yuuri looks down to where his arms are shaking like crazy and pushes his glasses back onto his face with unstable hands. “I think maybe practicing it again would help me to calm down,” he says. “Practicing it several times.”

Phichit brightens. “Of course! Practice makes perfect.” He reaches a hand out and pulls Yuuri to a standing position and onto the ice.

Yuuri skates over to the barrier next to the sound booth and smiles at Otabek, who has one ear connected to the designer headphones every sound tech wears and both feet in ice skates propped up on a bench. Even after a few months in Thailand, he still hasn’t gotten the hang of Thai culture.

“Can you play the pair skate piece?” Yuuri asks, and Otabek gives him a wordless thumbs-up.

Yuuri climbs back onto the ice, and every step he gets further away from the man his shoulders grow more tense, his steps more stiff in preparation for the song.

The opening notes start, lilting and slow until the drumbeat picks up, and he and Phichit launch into their routine. The pair skating event is the conclusion to Phichit’s enormous feat of a skating performance, which features in its two-hours running length an army of skaters in traditional costumes from their countries, one elephant, different choreographed routines showcasing different aspects of skating, and one audience participation element to involve children in the audience, teaching them the basics of skating on the ice. And, of course, the pair skating that only showcases Phichit, the creator, and Yuuri, his anxiety-ridden and Grand Prix finalist best friend.

The pair skating sums up everything the brightly colored performance features--a step routine reminiscent of the clowns, a jump section highlighting the ballet, and rock ‘n roll music to keep up the hype. The story behind the pair skating is one of friendship slowly building from birth to the present day, a parallel to Phichit and Yuuri’s friendship, bonded through figure skating across countries.

Yuuri would have preferred Phichit’s hamsters make an appearance instead of just hamster hats during the intro, but he can’t have everything he wants. Phichit would have none of his hamsters, his favored pets from grade school, actually on the ice, but relented to set their cage in the VIP seating section on opening night, with enough miniature blankets in there to make sure they won’t catch a cold.

The pair skating begins easily enough for Yuuri to get wrapped up in the story, portraying his friendship through different styles of dance on the ice. But as soon as the first in-show conflicts arise, Yuuri is pulled out of the narrative and notices everyone watching him--which currently consists of the few construction workers taking measurements, pausing from their work to move to the beat of the song and look at him, but it’s enough people that the hairs on the back of Yuuri’s neck stick up like a warning and Yuuri stumbles on his turn.

Phichit raises an eyebrow, but Yuuri shrugs him off. He can complete this. He is a Katsuki, Japan’s golden child, the unlikely hero, and he can’t fail his friend, not even in practice.

As he does another lap around the rink, the watchers’ eyes are beady and wide, white and boring into his very soul, criticising every move Yuuri makes. He stumbles again, digging his heel into the ice to stop from spiralling into an unplanned flip.

Phichit says, “We can stop if you need to,” but Yuuri shakes his head. He can do this. He has to do this.

As he’s nearing a break in the barrier, an exit, the rising trombone glissandos in the song signal his one and only jump, the triple axel. Yuuri gains enough speed and launches into the jump, curled in on himself to give enough speed and curvature to the jump, sure that every hour he’s spent in practice since he was six years old is enough for muscle memory to take over and successfully complete the jump.

Yuuri overshoots the jump, and the skate landing on the ice flips. He goes sailing right into the gap in the barrier, and would have vaulted into the floor beyond if his flight path isn’t stopped by a human body.

The human body grunts and crumples with Yuuri’s full force crashing into him, and they both sprawl on the ground.

Yuuri is the first to recover, scrambling up and lending the man a hand. “I’m so sorry!” he gushes. “Are you okay?”

The hood of the man’s jacket is thrown off, and he takes Yuuri’s hand gratefully, his shoulder-length silver hair fluttering like a dream. “I’m fine,” he assures, and Yuuri may have gotten a concussion, because he swears the man looks just like--

“Oh my god, Victor,” the short blond kid next to him doubles over laughing. “That was just like a rom-com! I can’t believe you actually caught the pig as he fell.”

\--Victor Nikiforov.

Yuuri blinks again, hard.

Behind him, Phichit skates over, and instead of being concerned for Yuuri’s health like a good friend, he has a wide smile on his face and outstretched arms. “Victor!” he crows. “You’re here early.”

Yuuri watches as his friend embraces the person who seems to be the actual Victor Nikiforov and not a figment of his imagination. He and the blond kid exchange glances, and the kid stops smiling at the situation and scowls at Yuuri.

Yuuri looks away. He has to be dreaming.

“Yuuri,” Phichit says, vigorously shaking his shoulder, “this is the one and only Victor Nikiforov!”

“We’ve met,” Yuuri says, and it must come out harsher than Yuuri intends, because Victor backs up a little. “I mean--we competed in the Grand Prix together.”

“Yeah, but he definitely didn’t talk to you, as he won and you failed,” the kid next to Victor pipes up.

“Who are you?” Phichit asks, a pleasant smile still on his face, even though Yuuri wants to punch him in the teeth, kind of.

“Are you telling me you don’t know who I am?” the kid protests.

Victor--the Victor Nikiforov, in the flesh--interrupts. “This is Yuri Plisetsky. I am coaching him for next season.” Victor leans in and whispers to Yuuri, “He kind of considers himself my family.”

Yuuri gulps. Victor’s face is right there in front of him, dimples in his cheeks from the sly smile and his hair long and gorgeous and flowing. “Right,” he says. “Um--family.”

Phichit reaches out his hand and shakes Yuri Plisetsky. “I’m Phichit Chulanont, and since there are now two Yuri’s in my rink, I shall call you Yurio.”

“I like it,” Victor says.

Yuri Plisetsky opens his mouth and closes it like a fish. He can’t seem to find the words to display his anger at how he’s not being treated like the spoiled prince he is. “But-- but you can’t just--”

“Yurio,” Yuuri nods in agreement. “Nice to re-meet you.”

Yurio pouts. “You know what? Since none of you like me, I’ll just go--hang out with the sound guy, who seems more cool than all of you combined.”

He tromps away in a huff, and Victor sighs, still smiling. “Ah, the joys of fatherhood,” he teases after Yurio, who flips him off.

Yuuri is still lost for words. “Phichit, why is Victor Nikiforov here?” he whispers.

“I told you,” Phichit says. “A friend was coming to look at our show. And he may even be able to help you on your skating!”

Yuuri has a war flashback of the last time he knew Victor was watching his skating, when he flubbed every jump and completed barely enough of the step sequence to continue to call himself a Katsuki. “Um,” he says.

Victor claps him on the back, and Yuuri doesn’t chance another look at the man’s face. His wonderful, beautiful face that Yuuri has fantasized about since he was twelve and watching the Junior Grand Prix for the first time, which Yuuri had knocked into at full force not five minutes ago. “What’s this?” Victor asks. “Having trouble in your skating?”

“No,” Yuuri starts.

“Yes,” Phichit interrupts, a gleam in his eye. He winks at Yuuri. “My friend here--well, you saw him last year. He has a bit of a performance issue.”

Yuuri casts his eyes to the heavens. There was no way Victor didn’t hear the double entendre in that sentence, and the last thing he wants the five-time winner of the Grand Prix to think of him is that. Just--anything but that.

Victor smiles at Yuuri, a sparkle in his eye, too. Yuuri begins to think that everyone might be ganging up on him. “Well, we can’t have that,” he teases. “Come on, show me what you got.”

“...What?” Yuuri croaks.

Victor waves towards the rink. “The routine. I’m getting used to this coaching thing, and I might be able to help whatever your--performance issue--is.”

“We’ll do it,” Phichit says, and drags Yuuri back onto the ice.

Yuuri hisses at him, “Why did--how did you get Victor here?”

Phichit grins. “I have friends in high places. Come on, don’t act like it’s such a bad thing. I’ve known you forever. Maybe having your crush watch you will improve your performance, like the Hawthorne Effect.”

“Fuck the Hawthorne Effect,” Yuuri mumbles, his cheeks red. He turns away so Victor won’t see him blush.

Phichit glides over to Otabek and requests the song again. Otabek, who is actually engaging in conversation with Plisetsky, gives Phichit a thumbs up.

The song starts again, and Yuuri and Phichit step around each other. The moves are drawn from ballet and tap dancing, from traditional skating steps and Bangkok street dancing techniques, designed to appeal to as wide an audience as possible. As Yuuri sees Victor leaning on the barrier, looking at only him, he can’t seem to remember the lessons over the past few years, nor the technique, and he stumbles minutes before the jump section.

Phichit catches him before Yuuri can fall, whispering, “You can do it! Just ignore Victor.”

Like Yuuri has ever been able to ignore the Russian skater at any point in his life, whether it was Victor’s Instagram account or his physical presence.

Yuuri somehow doesn’t fall before the jump, and turns the triple axel into a single, avoiding looking at how Victor must be disgusted by his movements. At least he doesn’t crash into the man of his dreams again, and somehow continues skating until the thunderous end, posing with Phichit with a final, choreographed dab.

Yuuri catches his breath and someone offstage is clapping. He looks up--it’s not Otabek, who is showing Yurio something on his phone, and it isn’t the construction workers, but Victor, stepping onto the ice in his sneakers and clapping excitedly.

Phichit pulls Yuuri towards the man. “So, how did he do?” Phichit asks.

Victor stops clapping but doesn’t remove the bright smile from his face. “Definitely performance issues,” he agrees. “Can’t get anything up on the ice.” He winks.

Yuuri looks literally anywhere but Victor. The one and only Victor Nikiforov, man of his dreams, is definitely flirting with him, with one perfect raised eyebrow. This has to be a dream. It can’t be anything else.

“What do you suggest?” Phichit asks in a serious tone like he didn’t just hear the same thing Yuuri did. “Opening night is in a month.”

Victor rubs his hands together and considers. “Well, he can’t get over this dry period by himself. He’s going to need someone to show him how to work with a partner again. And with this short of a deadline, there can’t be anyone else--yes, it’s not enough time to find someone. It has to be me.”

Yuuri blinks. “Excuse me?” he says.

Victor grins. “I will coach you to perfection on the ice pair skating,” he announces, holding out a hand.

Yuuri looks at Phichit, silently wondering if this is real.

Phichit gives him not one, but two thumbs up. “Go get him, tiger,” he whispers in Yuuri’s ear, and Yuuri blushes.

“What do you say?” Victor asks. “I mean, it’s not as if you have much of a choice--you already have a contract, and you have to perform whether you can do it or not--much better to learn how to succeed, right?” His hand is still extended.

Yuuri slowly takes the man’s warm and calloused hand, and shakes it slowly. His internal voice blares a warning signal at him. What is he doing? What is he agreeing to?

Victor leans forward until their noses are almost touching, and Yuuri’s breathing stops.  
“Don’t tell Yurio,” Victor whispers, “but I’m looking forward to this more than coaching him for the Prix.”

“I--I definitely won’t,” Yuuri promises. His voice does not crack, thank you very much.

Victor straightens out and brushes his long flowing hair behind his shoulders. Yuuri can’t tear his eyes from the majestic sight. “Well,” he says to both of them, “I guess I’ll stay until opening night to coach Yuuri. If I’m staying that long, I’ll need to see the best sights of Thailand. I can’t very well stay in Bangkok and not experience it, can I?”

“No,” Phichit says brightly, catching onto whatever Victor is implying. By this time, Yuuri’s head is spinning and he looks at the hand Victor just shook. He’s never washing it again. “I’m sure you’ll need a tour guide to show you around the best country in the world.”

“I’m sure,” Victor agrees. Their sly smiles match.

“Yuuri is adept at that sort of thing,” Phichit says. “He’s very knowledgeable about Thai history and he has absolutely no social life to speak of. No boyfriend, either.”

“Hey,” Yuuri protests, and then realizes that Phichit has just volunteered him to be Victor’s tour guide. “Now, I can’t--”

“Yes you can!” Phichit interrupts. “And you will! Practice is done for the day and will resume at nine o’clock tomorrow. I think Victor wants to go see some gardens and the palace, yes?”

Victor nods. “The palace would be lovely,” he agrees.

“But I can’t--you can’t tell me to--”

“Oh, come on,” Phichit whispers in Yuuri’s ear. “If you want, count this as part of your terms of employment. You must be Victor’s tour guide until he leaves.”

Now it’s Yuuri’s turn to open and close his mouth without any sound coming out. “That’s preposterous,” he manages to croak, and this time his voice definitely cracks. “That can’t be legal.”

“I’m above the law,” Victor shrugs with an air of Russian aristocracy. Yuuri can almost imagine him in a crown like a twentieth-century Romanov, his silver hair accentuating his monarchical charm.

“Makes sense,” Phichit whispers. “Go get him, tiger!” He pushes Yuuri towards the lockers. “Go get changed and get out there with Victor!”

“You know,” Victor comments loudly as Yuuri walks to his locker, “Yurio is going to have to come on the tours with us. It might be less romantic than you’re expecting.”

Yuuri almost chokes on air, sending Yurio a dark glare where he sits and seems to be smiling with Otabek. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question of the chapter: what length do you think Victor's hair should be?


	2. selfie game strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri thinks he can feel the outline of Victor’s abs against his back. It’s a good thing he already jerked off, or else he would be mortified right now, because the random person in front of him could feel literally everything that would happen at the onset of Yuuri’s desire. Which would be terrible.

Yuuri spends a solid twenty minutes under the spray of lukewarm water in the shower contemplating his entire life up until this point. He can still feel every touch Victor laid on him, every brush of his hands and his hair, and the contact they made when Yuuri flew right into him.

All the touches except for the last one have Yuuri hot and bothered, so unstable in the middle of the Thai ‘winter’ that the lukewarm water adds to the sweat dripping down his back, his ragged breaths that rise from within him, each of them a panting want displayed for the empty locker room shower to see. He’s in a stall by himself, surrounded by concrete walls and a plastic curtain he’s pretty sure no one can see through, and there’s enough privacy to finally act on his desires.

Yuuri leans against the wall, momentarily acknowledging the mosquitoes that had previously inhabited it before his arrival, and reaches down to grasp the physical embodiment of his want, the pressing hardness that threatens to overwhelm him.

Victor had looked like an angel--his silken hair, an unnatural silver that shines like the surface of the stars at Yuuri, the way he smiled at Yuuri and teased intimacy, his unending optimism, offering to be Yuuri’s coach--

“Fuck,” Yuuri sighs, too loudly, and bites down on his own lips. No one else is in the skating rink locker room, but he can’t be too loud regardless.

Victor, with his dimples and the teasing flicker in his eyes and the strong body that supported Yuuri as he fell, that didn’t sustain damage even as Yuuri’s hundred and fifty pound body knocked into it like a bowling ball, his strong and calloused hands that Yuuri just aches to have on his body. Everything about Victor turns him on, and nothing has changed from last year’s Grand Prix.

Last year, Yuuri hadn’t even had the courage to lock eyes with Victor, much less study him, but the tantalizing glances from his peripheral vision were enough to keep him weak-kneed as he stepped out onto the ice and fell, over and over again. The sight of Victor’s performance, winning gold with his supple grace, was enough to keep him in his hotel room during the post-Prix banquet, uncomfortably hard, just as he is now, but unwilling to do anything about it amidst his tears.

Yuuri lets the water, not warm and not cold, wash over him as he pumps himself, and the attraction now so mirrors a time that Yuuri would rather never think of again, except now he is physically in the same space as Victor Nikiforov for the next month until Opening Night, the hellish day that somehow seems forever away and tomorrow in the same instant. Yuuri has to take him on a tour of the best sites Bangkok has to offer, standing next to him on what must be a crowded MRT and not react to any of the sly touches Victor might give him or the whispered nothings in his ears.

Yuuri groans and comes, and as he cleans up and actually starts to wash himself off, he think that this might be the absolute most pitiful moment in his life--jerking off in a stall in a locker room, fantasizing over how unworthy he is next to Victor Nikiforov, prepared to reign his reactions in for the next month as he slowly suffers.

He knows from experience that coaching involves so much hands-on practice, perfecting positions and demonstrating moves, and if Victor is to touch him that much--and there is no way the Russian would ever deign those touches to be strictly casual and platonic--surviving it with his faculties intact would be a miracle.

Yuuri finishes showering and dresses in baggy shorts and a shirt he’s sure has food stains on the front--not attire he particularly wants Victor to observe on him--or, oh god, Yurio.

Yuuri forgot Yurio would be joining them on the tourist outing.

When he emerges from the locker room, Phichit is chatting with Victor next to the rink, and they both have bubble milk teas in their hands, enjoying the accessibility of the mall. Phichit says something with the expression he uses making dirty jokes, and Victor throws back his head and laughs.

Yuuri feels a pang of jealousy run through him. It’s irrational, of course, because he doesn’t control what Victor does, and he doesn’t want to. All Yuuri wants is for Victor to give him that indulgent smile at every turn, until it feels like Yuuri is high on exhilaration.

Phichit notices Yuuri walking towards them and wiping off the steam from his glasses, and nods towards Victor. They stand, and Yuuri notices Victor has a suitcase.

“Before you go to the palace,” Phichit says, “Victor needs to check into a hotel. I’m sure you can find a way to get there and get to the palace.”

Yuuri blinks. “I’m sure,” he repeats dutifully.

“Alright, bye!” Phichit waves at them as they leave, Victor dragging Yurio away from Otabek and out of the mall.

Yurio doesn’t insult Yuuri, and in fact doesn’t say anything at all, just immediately gets on his phone and begins to text.

Yuuri has to break the silence somehow. “The nearest MRT line is just a minute away,” he tells Victor. “What hotel are you going to?”

Victor raises an eyebrow. “The Shangri-La, of course.”

Of course Victor is going to stay in the most expensive hotel Bangkok has to offer for an entire month, because he is rich beyond belief. Yuuri is reminded of his own home, what could ostentatiously be called a studio apartment, which is about the size of a bathroom in the Shangri-La.

“Right,” Yuuri manages to say. “That’s pretty easy to get to.”

The MRT line is crowded and in a rush even at two in the afternoon, because the city never sleeps. Yuuri shows Victor and Yurio how to purchase single-time tickets, and they wait in a crowd of people for the Blue Line. Even before they enter the train, Yuuri is smushed against Victor, the man’s front pressed against his back.

Yuuri thinks he can feel the outline of Victor’s abs against his back. It’s a good thing he already jerked off, or else he would be mortified right now, because the random person in front of him could feel literally everything that would happen at the onset of Yuuri’s desire. Which would be terrible.

Victor doesn’t seem to mind the mugginess of a Bangkok afternoon, in the absence of air conditioning or even fans in the station.

Yurio only makes a throwaway comment--”Need to bring some ice down from Russia this time of year”--but aside from that, doesn’t look up from his phone.

“You know,” Victor whispers, so close to Yuuri that his breath is hot on his ear, “I’ve never seen Yurio this polite before. Maybe this fatherhood thing will work out after all.”

Yurio snorts next to him. “I heard that, you know.”

“And?”

Yuuri sees Yurio visibly clench his mouth around a comment that is dying to come out. The year before, after Yuuri’s devastating defeat, Yurio had drop-kicked his bathroom stall door and called him a pig, which he repeated an hour ago. But now...no insults, nothing.

Finally, Yurio relents, “Otabek told me that keeping comments to myself made me look more mature.”

“Oh,” Victor teases, “so you care about what Otabek thinks, do you?”

“Shut up,” Yurio mumbles, and hides his adolescent blush behind his phone. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. He has a boyfriend, who is an adult and Canadian and better than me in every conceivable way. We spent the entire talk looking over his Instagram feed.”

“Must be terrible for you,” Victor jokes, “to like someone who doesn’t like you back. Isn’t that right, Yuuri?”

Yuuri can almost feel the gaze boring holes in the back of his skull. “Must be,” he says as nonchalantly as possible, adding in a dismissive shrug for good measure. “I’ve never been in unrequited love.”

“Oh, so swooning into Victor’s arms wasn’t a sign of passion?” Yurio sneers at him, and then looks down at his feet. “That was--rude. I apologize.”

Victor is staring openmouthed at Yurio. “You should definitely spend more time with Otabek,” he says. “As your father, I definitely encourage this friendship. He’s making you a better person.”

Yurio launches into a detailed report of how Otabek is taking a year off from ice skating because of an on-ice injury and holds several jobs, including a DJing gig, but is still planning his choreography for next year’s Grand Prix. “We could compete against one another,” he says dreamily.

“Now who’s swooning?” Yuuri bites back. Yurio flips him off.

The train rolls into the station and suddenly previous alliances are cast off and every passenger is for themselves, pushing amongst the throng to secure a spot standing in the most awkward position imaginable. At least Victor isn’t pressed up against Yuuri like he’s preparing to grind against him.

Turns out, Victor and Yurio have separate rooms at the Shangri-La, and Victor chats with the lady at the check-in counter so smoothly that he extends the booking for a month with no switching of rooms. Yuuri watches what would be his entire life savings disappear from Victor’s credit card in an instant without the man batting an eyelash.

Yuuri lets himself fantasize for a second. If he and Victor were together, Victor would be the perfect boyfriend, providing for everything he needs with a flick of his credit card, pleasing him with not only his perfect body but also as much money as Yuuri wants--

“Yuuri,” Victor is calling from the elevators, and Yuuri shakes himself out of the fantasy he’s never going to relive again ever to save the shreds of his last remaining dignity, to join them. Victor drops Yurio off at his own room down the hall from him, and as it’s just Yuuri and Victor walking down the hall, the man says, “I’m glad there’s space between our rooms, because I would hate for him to hear anything...intimate.”

“I don’t see how anything intimate is going to happen in a room by yourself,” Yuuri says, stopping himself from professing his undying love to Victor Nikiforov on the spot because of one small thing: even with all his fantasies that Victor would love him and care for him, their partnership would only be based on mutual attraction and competition, and those things combined make for an unhealthy love affair and a messy breakup. Every single time.

All skaters are the same, Yuuri thinks bitterly as Victor silently opens the door to his spacious hotel room and dumps his suitcase on the massive king-size bed, fit for two at least. Like Christophe Giacometti, Victor Nikiforov is a playboy searching for a warm body to share a bed with, and nothing more. And unlike Chris, Yuuri won’t make the mistake of getting involved with him, no matter how much he wants to.

“Well,” Victor says, rubbing his hands together and plastering a smile on his face that, compared to the genuinely amazing ones Yuuri has witnessed earlier, is nothing but a facade. “Time to see the palace.”

***

The Grand Palace is a huge complex in the center of Bangkok, next to a flowing river, and although the Royal Family hasn’t lived there recently, it is still a functional wat--a Buddhist temple--and a tourist attraction.

Despite the entrance fee, Yuuri loves going to tourist spots in the city.

“Why is that?” Victor asks, and his engaging smile would convince Yuuri that the man is actually interested in him for his ideas and his experiences, not just his body, but Yuuri can’t be convinced.

“My family owns a tourist spot of our own,” Yuuri says. “It’s a ninja castle.”

“Nice,” Yurio says, impressed. He’s still glued to his phone.

Under the watchful gaze of Victor, Yuuri wants to tell his entire family history. “I’ve always grown up knowing what it’s like to keep the legacy of something older and larger than myself. I’ve known the work that goes into preserving the beauty everyone sees here. And to imagine that there are people that keep this place looking exactly like it did two hundred years ago, so that we can relive memories and imagine what people once took for granted, is amazing.”

When he comes back to earth, out of the memories of taking care of Hasetsu Castle and appreciating the history of Japan, Victor is smiling at him. Yuuri gulps and looks away.

The Grand Palace is a collection of buildings built with traditional Thai architecture, gilded with gold, and it sparkles, resplendent, a foil to Yuuri’s internal conflict.

“Hey, Yuuri,” Victor calls as he poses in front of the buildings. “Come take a selfie with me!”

Yuuri takes another selfie in much the same mood as he did this morning with a fake smile on his face. Victor seems to approve of the photo, though, and asks for Yuuri’s Instagram username.

Yuuri reluctantly tells him, and gets a notification on his phone a minute later that Victor tagged him in the post and titled it: partners out exploring the magnificent city!!! [heart eyes emoji] [thumbs up emoji] [100 emoji]

As Victor has over a million Instagram followers, Yuuri’s own follower count immediately starts to ratchet up from a hundred thousand, and in the middle of his phone incessantly making Instagram alert noises, Minako calls him.

“Yuuri,” she greets without preamble. “How’s your time in Thailand?”

“You saw the post,” he says, heart plummeting.

“Well, of course I saw the post. I’m a bigger fan of Nikiforov than you are. Now, how did this happen?”

Yuuri reluctantly explains to her the events of the day, leaving out the flirting and soul-wrenching angst.

After he caught her up to somehow Victor agreeing to coach him, Minako says, “You know what this means.”

“Celestino is going to also call me?” Yuuri guesses.

“No! Well, maybe. But the paparazzi now know exactly where Victor is, and once they do one single Google search on ice skating in Bangkok, they will flock to your show. You know you can’t handle an audience, especially if they’re out to judge you.”

Oh. Oh, shit.

“I have to call you back,” Yuuri says desperately. “Victor--needs my help with something.”

He hangs up suddenly and Victor, who has wandered off and left him and Yurio alone, definitely doesn’t need his help, but Yuuri might need Victor’s help.

The paparazzi. Only a select group was allowed within the rink of the Grand Prix as reporters, and only the official camera crew recorded the event, and even those eyes on Yuuri was enough to leave him sprawling on the ice at every jump. But now, if they have free reign, he wouldn’t even be able to skate in the background. Yuuri would be officially paralyzed, all because of Victor’s presence.

Yuuri calls Phichit. He picks up on the first ring.

“Phichit!” Yuuri says desperately, a hitch in his voice. “I need your help.”

“I saw Victor’s selfie,” Phichit mumbles, and in the background Yuuri can hear the telltale sound of an action movie, Phichit’s signature guilty pleasure. “Glad to see you enjoying yourself around your crush.”

Even though Victor and Yurio are nowhere around, Yuuri still glances around guiltily. “The paparazzi,” he blurts. “They know Victor’s here now, and they are going to follow him straight to your show.”

“The more people, the better,” Phichit says, unconcerned.

“No, Phichit--I can’t skate in front of the press,” Yuuri says desperately.

“You already knew there’s going to be press on opening night,” Phichit frowns. “I’ve been advertising for months. Some reporters even drop by on our practice, and you don’t mess up in front of them.”

“But they’re not reporting for skating websites! They’re here for tidbits on Thai culture, or millennial quirks, but this paparazzi will be criticizing my every move and comparing me to Victor.” As he speaks, the bile rises in Yuuri’s throat, threatening to spill. The open air is suddenly too stifling, the tourists too crowded. Yuuri can’t breathe.

He barely hears Phichit telling him to talk to Victor about this before hanging up, but Yuuri can’t think. He starts to walk in any direction, and feels himself become enveloped by a person with a set of abs that feel exactly like Victor’s.

Yuuri looks up.

Victor is frowning down at him, his majestic hair flowing freely. Victor chews on his lip and hesitantly starts talking. “I heard your end of the conversation,” he says. “You’re afraid you can’t do it with an audience, like in front of me.”

Yuuri doesn’t try and pull out of the hug, but just rests against Victor. Victor isn’t flirting meaninglessly this time, just holding Yuuri like a friend. There’s nothing sexual about this, just comforting.

“I believe in you,” Victor says. “I think I can coach you through your stage fright.”

Yuuri buries his face in Victor’s shirt, breathing in the smell of his cologne, closing his eyes and letting himself bask in the sturdiness of Victor’s arms. “Could you do something to prevent the press from discovering us?” he asks.

“Nothing legal,” Victor admits. When Yuuri looks up at him, Victor’s lips twitch a small smile and he assures, “I’m not going to do anything illegal. I’m sorry, but no.”

He doesn’t dissuade Yuuri from keeping him in the hug longer than is socially appropriate, long enough that Yuuri is surprised Yurio doesn’t show up out of nowhere and make a lewd comment. When Yuuri finally relents and brushes the lint off his shirt, adjusting his tear-stained glasses, Victor just looks indulgent, not annoyed.

Yuuri’s heart throbs. If only Victor cared about Yuuri for more than his availability and proximity to him, then the natural thing to do now would be to seal it with a kiss. Victor is right there, a strong shoulder to cry on and not concealing his interest.

If only.

“Let’s go,” Yuuri says, voice hoarse. “You’ve seen enough of the Palace.”

Victor doesn’t object, but slings an arm around Yuuri, supporting him, as they go to find Yurio and finish with the tourism for the day.

Yuuri feels at home in Victor’s arms only a few hours after he meets him, leaning in to touch their shoulders and be connected from shoulder to hip. He allows a small smile to grace his face. He and Victor Nikiforov are--friends, he supposes, after everything.

Yuuri is so intent that he doesn’t notice the well-meaning tourists snapping photos of them, having recognized the great Victor Nikiforov, who are innocently trying to make a few bucks by posting them online. Within the hour, they will be picked up by Russian, Thai, and Japanese tabloids alike, all asking one question: Who is Victor Nikiforov’s new mysterious partner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been to the Grand Palace one (1) time in my life, and I don't remember it, so here's to Google. *toasts*
> 
> Question of the chapter: Would you rather have an uncomfortable romantic moment in a crowded subway station or an elevator?


	3. coaching, pt. i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri drops his water cup, and immediately scrambles to pick it up. He’s suddenly a teenager again and watching Worlds for the first time on a grainy television, watching Victor in his androgynous and angelic costume woo the entire crowd with his flamboyant airheadedness. Yuuri wasn’t able to resist him then, and he’s not able to resist him now.

Phichit calls Yuuri an entire ten minutes before his alarm is poised to wake him up at the wonderful hour of six in the morning. Yuuri groans incoherently and reaches blindly for his phone, accidentally pulling out the charger connected to the wall with it.

“Hello?” he says hoarsely, not bothering to check the caller ID.

“Have you seen the news?” Phichit demands.

“Um, no.” Yuuri wipes the sleep out of his eyes. Outside his small and grimy window, covered in curtains that don’t block the light, Bangkok is still completely dark. There’s no reason for Phichit to be calling as infernally early as he is. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll count this phone call as paid overtime--”

“Check your Twitter feed,” Phichit says. He sounds out of breath. That must be terrible for him, Yuuri considers as he opens his beat-up Dell laptop and loads Twitter.

“I don’t know what the big deal is--holy crap,” Yuuri breathes like he’s been sucker-punched in the gut. “The press thinks I’m dating Victor?”

Across his screen are tabloid newspapers reporting that Victor Nikiforov has a new fling, and they’ve identified him as Katsuki Yuuri--even providing a handy link to his Twitter handle.

Yuuri’s follower count has tripled overnight, and while Yuuri is a bit offended that posing with Victor was the one thing he needed to do to gain instant fame, he’s also pissed beyond belief.

“Yuuri?” Phichit is saying. “Yuuri, don’t panic. Breathe with me, here; I didn’t mean to upset you--breathe in, two, three, four--”

“I’m not panicking,” Yuuri snaps. “I’m just...surprised.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good,” Phichit says encouragingly. “So that means you’re getting better at working through stress, and performing on Opening Night should be easier than expected.”

“Right,” Yuuri says without registering Phichit’s words. He’s desperately looking through his feed to see if anyone who actually knows him has commented, if his family knows yet--

> Christophe Giacometti @sexonice  
>  Can’t believe my bro is boning my ex! #itsasmallworld .@katsukikatsudon .@nikivictor

Yuuri grinds his teeth. “Well, Chris has reacted well,” he comments blithely.

“Oh, Yuuri, I’m so sorry.” He can hear the sadness in Phichit’s voice.

Yuuri grits his teeth. “I’m fine,” he says. “I didn’t expect that anything would linger between us after everything.”

Phichit hums over the line, and Yuuri is aware that he’s sitting in his underwear in his one-room apartment, with a phone in one hand and his clunky laptop providing warmth to his thighs. His hair is stuck up in several directions and his breath tastes terrible, and while the internet is praising him as Victor’s latest catch, he couldn’t be farther from romancing.

To put icing on the cake, his alarm goes off, and Phichit says, “I guess I’ll see you at work today. With Victor.”

Yuuri is left with a disconnected line and his own face reflected in the computer screen, rings around his eyes and Chris’s passive-aggressive tweet staring back at him. It’s going to be a long day.

Dress rehearsal starts today, and as Yuuri gets off the MRT and rides the escalator up the three stories of the mall to reach the ice rink, he yawns. Rent costs have cut off his coffee access for another two weeks.

Otabek is the first person to greet him as he walks in the cordoned-off ice rink with significantly more decorations up on the walls than yesterday. In his hand he holds a hamster hat and a shiny red outfit.

“What’s this?” Yuuri asks.

Otabek stifles a yawn himself, looking even more dead on his feet than Yuuri. “Your costume,” he says. “We’re practicing the opening act with lights and sound and everything.”

“Are you okay?”

Otabek gives Yuuri a wry thumbs-up. “I bet I’ve been fielding more calls than you have from the press.”

“Right. The photo with Victor.” Yuuri remembers that Victor starts coaching him today for the performance, and Victor has also heard the rumors.

Otabek puts his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “I shared a podium with Victor last year,” he says. “I know that Victor’s intent isn’t to coerce you into anything, and he won’t use this to get anything from you. Understand?”

Yuuri nods, but he thinks: Victor is a skater. A skater loaded with gold medals and international recognition, one whom the press has been very clear to portray as a player, but as someone who puts his career in front of people. He’s no better than Chris--and, really, no better than Yuuri, who has spent his entire career idolizing the man and hoping to touch him.

Until, of course, the opportunity arose, and Yuuri suddenly developed standards that were absent during his fling with Chris.

Yuuri trudges to his locker and slowly ties his skates up. Maybe the affair with Chris had one good thing come out of it--morals, if nothing else. A new view on life. Sure, Victor wants to coach him, but he’s not interested in Yuuri as a person.

Yuuri scoffs to himself. Victor is too busy being a nice person and coaching Yurio to be interested in Yuuri.

On his way back to the rink, he sees Yurio taking a spot in the sound booth next to Otabek, propping his feet up on the railing--Yuuri winces at the cultural offense--and looking altogether too chirpy for before noon.

“Yuuri!” Yurio screams at him, and Yuuri turns around, prepared to be screamed at, or silently threatened with his eyes, as Yurio is right next to Otabek and trying to impress him.

“Yes?”

“Next time, make sure Victor tags me in a selfie of you two. I need more Instagram followers.”

Yuuri has nothing to say to that, and just skates away, warming up to purge all thoughts of Victor from his mind.

Phichit takes one look at his outfit and shakes his head. “It’s all wrong!” he mourns, fussing over the brass buttons and the tail of the coat. “At least the hamster hat looks amazing on you.”

“At least it does,” Yuuri agrees, and lets Phichit adjust his clothes until he’s relatively sure they won’t break the first time he turns on the ice.

Phichit takes his hand and looks into Yuuri’s eyes. “If there’s anything I can do to take your mind off of the internet catastrophe--”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri says.

“No, it’s not. I insisted that you take Victor on a tour, and it turned out like this. It’s my fault.”

“Listen, Phichit. It’s no one’s fault. It was just a regular thing that ballooned up in our faces, ruining everything we have here. But it’s fine. We’re not actually together.”

“Really?” Phichit looks genuinely surprised. “So your exhaustion this morning wasn’t because of a late-night workout--”

“Ew, no--” Yuuri says. “I would never wear myself out before a practice, you know that.” He grins and Phichit copies him, and for a second, it’s just he and his best friend on the ice. No one else exists--not Victor or Yurio, and none of his problems matter.

“In all seriousness,” Phichit says, “do you actually want to be with Victor? Because I can make that happen.”

Yuuri scoffs. “You couldn’t anymore make that happen than Victor can, and he’s been trying. That doesn’t have an easy answer.”

“It can’t possibly be a difficult answer. Yes or no.”

“Phichit, Victor is friends with Chris.” Yuuri doesn’t look at Phichit’s face, just sees somewhere beyond his friend’s eager expression. “He--fuck, Chris probably told him everything about me, about how we broke up. I talked to Seung Gil last month, and he told me that Chris still maintains that it was my fault we broke up. Me.”

Phichit hugs him again, and it’s too early in the morning for this much physical contact, but Yuuri relents and hugs him back.

“If Victor is anything like Chris, I’ll punch him in the teeth for you,” Phichit says. “And I’ll set my hamsters loose on his hotel room. But I don’t think he’s like Chris. And, I don’t know, maybe your really bad experience tainted how you see relationships, but I think you’ll want to at least give Victor a chance to prove he’s not like Chris.”

“But he’s friends with him,” Yuuri says miserably.

“So? People go to great lengths to keep their friends, even lying about themselves. I’m not saying you should blindly accept Victor’s flirtation--because, let’s be honest, he does that to everyone. I’m not saying you should ignore signs of him being like Chris, but I haven’t noticed the signs.”

Yuuri sighs. “Reality is so weird.”

Phichit laughs. “You’re so right. Reality is the weirdest thing on earth.” He pats Yuuri on the back. “Remember, if he does anything like Chris, tell me and I will wreck him.”

Yuuri takes a page out of Otabek’s book and gives him a thumbs up. +

Phichit continues to warm up and Yuuri heads to get some water before practice officially starts. At the water fountain, he happens to look up, and sees Victor himself walk in.

Victor is dressed in an outfit that can only be called extremely gay, with a large rainbow stripe across his shirt and tie-dye baggy pants. His hair, usually long and flowing, has been tied up in a loose bun, and he his large designer headphones blare Russian screamo music as he walks into the rink.

Yuuri drops his water cup, and immediately scrambles to pick it up. He’s suddenly a teenager again and watching Worlds for the first time on a grainy television, watching Victor in his androgynous and angelic costume woo the entire crowd with his flamboyant airheadedness. Yuuri wasn’t able to resist him then, and he’s not able to resist him now.

Victor is hiding a smile as he walks over to Yuuri. “Good morning,” he says. “Do you need help with that?”

“I can carry my own water, thank you,” Yuuri says, and his cheeks are burning. Victor’s cheekbones can cut steel on a regular basis, but with his hair pulled back and every inch of them exposed in a different complexion, they can slice diamonds.

Don’t imagine what Victor would look like with braided hair. Don’t do it.

Victor says, “I talked to my publicist, and I can definitely assist you in anything you want to do to end this image.” He holds up the Instagram post on his phone as an explanation.

Yuuri is tongue-tied. Victor wants to help him take down the false representation of him, even though he’s expended effort into basically asking Yuuri if he wants to fuck.

Yuuri is sure of one thing: Chris would never offer this.

“No, that’s okay,” he squeaks. “I’ll deal with it myself.” If Yuuri was to actually take up the offer, he wouldn’t be better than Chris, either.

Victor says, “If you change your mind, I’m always open. But for now--I’m glad you like the image.” He curls his lip up in a smolder and walks off.

Yuuri concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, not buckling his knees before he even reaches the ice. When he reaches the rink, he has to physically feel the shape of his lips with his hands to make sure that he’s still smiling, wide and sure.

Oh, Victor Nikiforov, what have you done?

***

If Yuuri thought interacting with Victor would be unbearable after the world thinks they are dating, being physically coached by him is an entire new level. After rehearsing the first twenty minutes of the show with the entire ensemble who, in total, measure to about fifty people, Yuuri has almost managed to block Victor’s presence out of his mind.

But the Russian is always around in the corner of Yuuri’s eyes--laughing with a light technician, wearing a spare hamster hat sideways, drinking more of his bubble tea so slowly that Yuuri can see the individual tapioca balls disappear into his mouth, nodding his head to the variety of music, taking selfies with the small crowd that gathers.

Victor is the perfect public figure--kind with fans, willing to give autographs and talk with them, and Yuuri is absolutely fine with him spending quality time with other people, no matter the pang that runs through his heart every time he sees Victor’s dimples, but everyone thinks that he is dating Yuuri. Every single person.

When the ensemble is cleared to take a break for lunch, dispersing to the nearest McDonalds for cheap and greasy food, Victor laces up his own skates and steps on the ice with Yuuri. The rink is almost empty during lunch hour except for the one attendant who is not-so-subtly photographing them.

Victor’s cheeks are flushed and Yuuri can see the blush clearly in the overhead lights. Victor’s bun is messed up, too, hair stuck to his head with sweat and others messed up.

“Your hair--” Yuuri trips up saying, reaching out to point to the mess. “It’s kind of--”

Victor’s hands meet him halfway, and somehow they are still as cold as ever. Yuuri closes his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Victor says, a grumble of happiness low in his throat. “Is my imperfection bothering you?”

Victor might not be the only person with a blush staining his cheeks now. Yuuri gulps. “N-no.”

“You sure?” Victor whispers, leaning in ever so close. “You’re not hot and bothered by my appearance?”

“Here,” Yuuri says, desperately trying to salvage the moment, turning behind Victor and pulling his hair out of the bun. “I’ll just fix it for you.”

“As you wish, Yuuri.”

Yuuri doesn’t respond to him, instead focusing on Victor’s long and silky-smooth hair. After his short-lived high school phase trying to be like Victor, growing his hair out past his ears, he knows how to tie a hair bun. But doing it with someone else is so different than tying one’s own hair--the texture of Victor’s hair, the hums he makes in the back of his throat that Yuuri can feel in his palms, the way he leans into Yuuri’s body and suddenly Victor’s ass is against him, and Victor is tilting his head back so Yuuri can fully reach his hair and Yuuri can’t breathe.

Yuuri holds his breath as he finishes the bun and then immediately steps back, so glad for his long scarlet coat to hide anything he may be feeling. He smiles at Victor. “Done!”

Victor reaches up to feel the brand new bun, and his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Perfect,” he whispers, and another shiver runs through Yuuri’s heart. This time, it’s not jealousy.

Victor extends his arm to Yuuri, who loops his through it. “Shall we dance?”

“My part in the pair skating doesn’t require linking arms,” Yuuri protests, even as Victor starts some laps around the rink.

“We’re just getting warmed up,” Victor assures him. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to be this close to Phichit in the performance--you don’t have to be this close with anyone who’s not me.”

Yuuri links arms with Victor and lets him guide him through a few loops and lazy figure eights around the rink, the sound of skates cutting through ice the only sound echoing throughout the room. When they are back where they started, Victor lets him go. “Are you warmed up?”

“Sure,” Yuuri says. He knows his deepening blush is clearly visible.

“So show me what you got.”

Yuuri grins and, in the absence of the music for the choreography, begins to skate a program detailing friendship. It starts with small, tentative movements, circling a stranger for the first time, and as the crescendos grow, Yuuri begins to get stronger and bolder, having practiced and perfected the movements. Using choreography from throughout the rest of the show, he expresses his emotions in terms of loving his friend and living life with him, and where Phichit would return his emotions if they were together, Victor just stands from the center of the rink and watches as Yuuri pours out his heart in a step sequence.

The jump is the climax, the denouement--the jump is the epitome of everything Yuuri has sacrificed for friendship. And as Yuuri gains enough speed for the jump, he sees the sparkle in Victor’s eye, and thinks that maybe he’s not dancing about friendship any longer.

Maybe the broad strokes of tentative hesitation more represent a romantic relationship, with equal partners looking for a way into a compromise, discovering each other’s personalities and characteristics. Maybe the confidence and the twirls designed to signify unity represent something deeper than platonic affection, maybe Yuuri is skating this to pour out his willingness to bond with Victor, maybe the jump represents a leap of faith by both parties, a jump into the well of hope, filled with deep bliss within--

Yuuri’s skate hits the ground and Victor is clapping, clapping without end.

“You did it!” Victor says. “You made the jump.”

“I did,” Yuuri whispers, looking down at himself. He made the triple axel without even thinking about it, without the mental planning and the fear of failure.

“What was different this time?” Victor asks as he skates towards him. “You even had a different expression on your face than I saw last time. Were you thinking about something else?”

Yuuri puts his hands to his face to hide the stain down his neck of embarrassment and the realization of want. “I wasn’t thinking about friendship,” he says.

Victor cocks an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Looking up at the man wearing the bun Yuuri had just fashioned for him, the man who is the epitome of everything Chris Giacometti wants to be but could never dream to become, because Victor is kind and generous and willing to lend Yuuri a hand in coaching, and a hand in the more intimate things Yuuri has pondered--Yuuri loses his willpower.

“Food,” he says lamely, and looks away. “I was thinking about pork cutlet bowls.”

“Huh,” Victor says. “Okay. Sure. We can work with that. What exactly is a pork cutlet bowl?”

Yuuri tries to explain how sheer joy can come from eating noodles and pork, how the food is transformed into more than the sum of its parts, and Victor waves him off.

“Okay, I get it, I’ll bite. Where can I get some?”

Yuuri shrugs. “It’s more a Japanese thing--but there’s wonderful Thai food, too! In fact, there’s some good guaitiao just a floor beneath us.”

Victor makes finger guns at him. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Come on, warm down and shower and take me there! I want some good guaitiao for lunch.”

Yuuri nods. He just walked into inviting Victor out on a lunch date. So is his life.

At this rate of showering, Yuuri will be cleaner than he’s ever been before Opening Night--and his cock might be the rawest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question of the chapter (has nothing to do with the chapter): What's your favorite M. Night Shyamalan movie?


	4. IT'S JJ STYLE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How are the options different?” Yurio demands.
> 
> Yuuri sighs and tries to explain. “One has fish balls, the other only has chicken--”
> 
> “What about beef? Do they sell beef here?”
> 
> “No one wants beef in their soup, Yurio.”
> 
> “But it’s not soup if it has fucking bean sprouts and fish balls!”

Yuuri chews on his already raw lips, hovering outside the door of Victor’s hotel room. He paces back and forth on the plush carpet, willing himself to at least knock or something.

But showing up at someone’s place of living seems more desperate than just calling, and calling is more desperate than texting, Yuuri reasons with himself.

He stares down at the new number in his phone, titled ‘Vicchan’ by Phichit as he entered in the number just an hour ago.

“Come on,” Phichit had protested, when they were both at his apartment that Saturday morning, resting their feet in ice baths and watching old kung fu movies. “I know his personal cell phone number, and at some point you’re going to get tired of being an old, lone geezer, and want to call him up in the middle of the night to profess your love--”

“Fine,” Yuuri had relented, handing him his cell. “But, for the record, I’m not old, or a geezer.”

Phichit enters the numbers in. “I see you didn’t protest the ‘loner’ bit.”

“Well,” Yuuri shrugged modestly. “Even famous celebrities such as myself have a flaw or two.”

Now, Yuuri stands in front of Victor’s room, hands growing clammier by the second and his knees experiencing a phenomenon he remembers from last year’s Grand Prix, to be characterized as a fall in slow motion.

Yuuri sucks in his breath and raps on the door.

Inside is complete silence.

Apprehension gnaws on Yuuri’s gut--is Victor not here? His Instagram and Snapchat feeds haven’t been updated since yesterday, and Yuuri took that as proof that Victor had barricaded himself inside the Shangri La, but maybe--

The door opens, and Victor stands in front of Yuuri, squinting in the sunlight. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a jacket altogether too hot for this climate, and as he invites Yuuri inside his room, Yuuri sees why. Victor’s air conditioning is blasting on the coldest setting, and Yuuri shivers despite himself.

Victor notices that. “Oh, sorry about the weather, I’m trying to recreate Russian climate.” He turns the air conditioning off. “I’m a little homesick.”

“Got it,” Yuuri says between his teeth chattering.

Victor arranges himself on the giant bed pleasantly, feet tucked under his legs in a criss-cross position. He almost looks like he’s meditating, if not for the laptop strewn next to him. “Can I help you?”

Yuuri nods several times. “I’m here to ask--well, because last time was such a mess--”

As he stutters over his well-made plans, Victor nods and absentmindedly strips off his jacket, revealing nothing but a tight undershirt on beneath. Yuuri stutters to a stop.

Victor shrugs as if the outline of his pecs and abs aren’t making Yuuri’s stomach do some impressive flips. “It’s warm in here. Anyways, carry on--unless your plans suddenly just changed.”

Yuuri is sure that his right eye is blinking without his control, and wonders exactly what Victor had planned on doing to control Yuuri’s stress in the skating rink: wear seven layers of formless clothing? A ski mask? Not attend? Because Yuuri knows that every second with Victor in as little clothing as possible ratchets up his stress and adrenaline beyond belief.

“Nope,” Yuuri says. “I was hoping to invite you and Yurio to lunch to experience Bangkok more fully.”

“Huh,” Victor says, squinting at his laptop screen. “I guess it is lunchtime. Well,” he smiles at Yuuri, and his dimples are cute in the dim light, “I will formally accept your offer. Um--I may need to change.” He winks.

Yuuri raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Clearly. Now, should I personally knock on Yurio’s door to ask him, or should I text him?” Phichit had also added in Yurio’s number as an afterthought, titling it ‘Russian Two’.

“Do you get it?” Phichit had asked. “‘Russian Two’, like ‘Thing Two’, like Victor and Yurio are Things One and Two--”

“I get it,” Yuuri had assured him.

Victor is already taking his undershirt off and stepping into the bathroom. Yuuri avoids his eyes to not see the miles of bare, taut skin.

“Knock on his door,” Victor says. “Yurio is a true millennial and never answers his texts.”

***

Yurio shows up at his door with a shirt on that reads IT’S JJ STYLE in bold lettering. “Otabek gave it to me,” he says, and Yuuri can hear the longing in his voice. Yuuri is definitely not getting involved in that.

“Uh-huh,” Yuuri says. “Victor and I are going to lunch. Do you want to come?”

Yurio scowls at him. “Is the food free?”

“Of course the food isn’t free,” Yuuri says. “That’s not how the economy works.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Victor says behind Yuuri. Yuuri whirls around and sees the Russian skater, wet hair dripping, wearing a tight-fitting combination of shorts and a well-worn band tee.

“Ugh,” Yurio scowls again. “I don’t want to third wheel for your sickening date.”

“We’re not dating,” Yuuri says.

Yurio rolls his eyes. “Try telling the world that. Your Wikipedia statuses have already been changed.”

Victor doesn’t bat an eye. “Are you coming for the free food, or not?”

Yurio squints at both of them. “Sure,” he says, slamming the door of his room behind him. “But mark my words, Nikiforov--if either of you even touch, I am leaving immediately.”

Victor slaps Yurio on the back. “That’s the spirit, Plisetsky.”

The elevator ride is even more uncomfortable. Thirty stories above ground level, Yuuri has to watch the numbers tick down as Victor’s wet hair drips onto his neck, everyone pressed so close together in the small metal container that Yurio’s elbow is rested in Yuuri’s stomach. From the sheer force of it, the move isn’t a mistake.

Victor whispers, “Where do you have in mind to go?”

“Well, nowhere fancy,” Yuuri says. “But there’s a nice hole-in-the-wall restaurant that gives me a discount just a few stops down the MRT. No one will notice us.”

Victor’s arms encircle his waist, and Victor is leaning on his shoulder, rocking them to the beat of his own music. Yuuri leans in, and the hug is nice. It’s really nice.

“Sounds amazing,” Victor mumbles gutturally in his ear. “Somewhere nice and quiet, where no one can bother us.”

“Exactly,” Yuuri croaks. All the other people in the elevator look more uncomfortable than Yurio, as he’s sure some of them speak English and can hear Victor mercilessly flirting with him.

Yurio has a perpetual stink-eye he’s throwing their way.

The elevator finally arrives on the first floor and the people rush out, presumably trying to get as far away from the lovebirds as possible. Yurio has to walk behind them because he doesn’t know the way to the restaurant or anywhere in Bangkok, actually. Twice during the last week, Yurio has arrived hours late to the ice rink because he got lost on the subway.

As soon as they step out of the Shangri La, a microphone is shoved in Yuuri’s face and a reporter screams, “Can you give us a comment about your relationship?”

Yuuri looks blankly in their eyes. Behind him, Victor says smoothly, “No comment,” and they push through the throng of reporters gathered behind them.

“Do you not want to comment because this is a relationship just for the cameras?”

“Does this mean that Yuuri Katsuki will be competing in the Grand Prix this year?”

“When did you meet?”

“Yuuri, how do you think this will affect your previous relationship with Christophe Giacometti?”

At the mention of Chris, every muscle in Yuuri’s body freezes, and he physically can’t move himself past the invasive microphones.

Victor tugs at his arm, but Yuuri just squeezes his hand and tries to communicate ‘help’ in every nonverbal way he can. The reporters overwhelm them now, and Yuuri is wildly searching with his eyes, but he can find no way out of this.

Victor’s lean body is pressed against his, arm looped under his back, supporting him. His voice rises over the crowd. “If I agree to answer your questions for ten minutes, will you not follow my friends?”

“Deal,” someone shouts, and Yuuri is being pulled away by Yurio, one foot in front of another until he’s somehow walking without thinking, his mind wrapped around the question about Chris.

Next to him, Yurio mutters, “How did I get myself into this? Hey, pig--left or right to the MRT?”

“Right,” Yuuri manages to say. “And Otabek wouldn’t be too proud of you if he heard what you just called me.”

“Well,” says Yurio in a long-suffering tone, “Otabek would be proud of me if he knew I was saving your ass, and besides, he doesn’t know. Keep walking with me.”

Yuuri watches Victor behind him get surrounded by reporters, a false smile on his face, answering questions as they shout them out.

He doesn’t know how far he walks, only that Yurio sets him down on a bench outside the MRT station, people walking by going to lunch, none of them noticing as Yuuri breaks down.

Yurio shifts uncomfortably on the bench, checking his phone. “Victor knows where we are. He’ll meet up with us when we’re done.”

Yuuri nods, wiping tears off his face from under his fogging-up glasses. His head is almost between his knees, his heartbeat loud in the rush of blood under his ears. If Phichit was here, he would know what to do, but Phichit is a phone call away, and he can’t concentrate enough to dial a number.

“Are you okay?” Yurio asks.

Yuuri’s lack of an answer is a good enough response.

Yurio chews on his lips and messes with his IT’S JJ STYLE t-shirt, looking around at the people walking into the MRT station. None of them are looking at either of them, too concerned with their own lives to care about their surroundings. Yurio has only ever been in the center of attention before, has never lived his life without being the subject of interest for his peers. He has never had the freedom he does now, on the side of the road with Yuuri Katsuki.

“It’s okay,” Yurio says, the words of comfort coming awkwardly out of his mouth, reaching to pat Yuuri on the back. “Breathe with me, all right? In and out, in and out.”

He doesn’t know if his babbled words are working, but he can feel Yuuri breathing with him, taking a ragged gasp in and huffing out, until his shuttered breaths turn strong.

Yuuri looks up at him. “Thank you,” he says, smaller than ever before.

Yurio waves it off. “It’s nothing.”

“No,” Yuuri insists, placing a hand on Yurio’s arm. “Thank you. Phichit usually does that, because I’m never without him, but now--”

“Now you actually have more than one friend,” Yurio finishes. He’s sure that’s what Yuuri was about to say.

Yuuri smiles weakly. “Right. Where’s Victor?”

Yurio checks his phone. “He should be here within the next ten minutes.”

Yuuri nods to himself. In this light, he’s still shivering with the aftershocks of the wordless panic attacks, and his glasses are clutched in his hands.

“You know, Victor actually talking to the reporters will perpetrate the idea that you two are dating.”

“I don’t care,” Yuuri shrugs. “What he did was so kind, so considerate--”

Yurio rolls his eyes. There is no way Yuuri isn’t in love with Victor Nikiforov.

Yuuri is still talking. “He’s nothing like Chris. I was wrong about him.”

“Chris?” Yurio frowns. “Giacometti? The person you freezed up about back there?”

Yuuri nods.

Yurio snorts. “Of course Victor is nothing like that prick.”

“But they’re friends.”

“Of course they’re friends. Chris wants Victor’s spot on the podium, and he never gets it. Befriending Victor is his way of trying to get a one-up with the competition, and Victor returns his friendship because he thinks it’s funny, and that talent wins over spying, or something.”

Yuuri blinks. So everything he thought about Victor was wrong. Everything he had just assumed about Victor was nothing more than a falsehood perpetuated by the Internet, spying reporters, and Chris himself.

“I’m such an idiot,” Yuuri sighs into his hands.

“Don’t worry,” Yurio says brightly. “I’m also an idiot. Because of Otabek, and everything.”

“Ah, right,” Yuuri says sagely. “Young, unrequited love.”

Yurio looks away. This is why he never talks to people, because they think they’re so much better than him.

“I’ve been there,” Yuuri assures him. “It sucks.”

“But how do you get out of it?” Yurio cries. “I can’t not talk to him, I’ve already friended him on every social media I own, and I’m wearing his boyfriend’s shirt.”

Yuuri smiles wryly and sits back on the bench. “Looks like you have it bad,” he tsks.

Yurio flips him off. “And how do I get out of it, oh wise and old one?”

“You just live with it,” Yuuri says. “You live with it until it becomes normal, and then you live with it until it goes away, like all normal things do. What you don’t do is obsess--don’t look for everything he says that hints to you being together, don’t stalk him on your social media, don’t hang onto every text for proof that he likes you back. Don’t expend the effort if you know you can’t get anything back.”

“Then why does Victor expend the effort for you?”

Yuuri looks back at Yurio. “I don’t know,” he says. “But it’s not like he can’t get me back. I’m not uninterested, it’s just complicated.”

“Well?” Yurio raises an eyebrow, and gestures to where Victor himself is walking up to the MRT. “I think things just got a lot less complicated between you two. You like him, he likes you, and he’s not like your stupid fucking ex. You should bone.”

Yuuri just opens his mouth like a fish as Victor walks up, as poised as he was before the onslaught of reporters.

Victor looks at them and gives them matching thumbs-up. “Well,” he says brightly, “shall we go?”

***

After the excitement of the past hour, actually arriving at Yuuri’s guaitiao place of choice is anticlimactic. The restaurant is a typical casual Thai restaurant, with plastic chairs and tables inside but open to the air, sitting in the relative anonymity of a place without many foreigners.

Still, two Russians do stand out, especially when they don’t know what they want to eat.

“How are the options different?” Yurio demands.

Yuuri sighs and tries to explain. “One has fish balls, the other only has chicken--”

“What about beef? Do they sell beef here?”

“No one wants beef in their soup, Yurio.”

“But it’s not soup if it has fucking bean sprouts and fish balls!”

“Okay,” Yuuri says, waving a hand at Victor to stop interrupting, “it’s not soup. It’s guaitiao. It’s Thai. Please choose whether you want the fish balls or not.”

“Fine.” Yurio crosses his hands over his chest, obscuring IT’S JJ STYLE from view. “I’ll take the fish balls.”

Yuuri grins gratefully at the long-suffering cook and orders their food.

Minutes later, after Yurio bitches about how the chair is cutting into his legs and how the table is too small for his height and how he’s sweating and Victor blinks passively and doesn’t respond, Yurio finally stops talking and suddenly becomes enraptured with his phone.

“How did you do that?” Yuuri whispers to Victor.

“It’s not difficult. He’s a teenager, and I remember being a teenager and all I wanted to do was make sure somebody was listening. I didn’t care about anything changing, or anything being fixed, and I certainly didn’t want adults to talk to me back, but I needed them to know I was there. So I just listened.”

“Yurio actually helped me a lot while you were answering the reporters,” Yuuri says. “He staved off a panic attack.”

“Oh,” Victor says, and looks at where Yurio is pointedly ignoring the two of them. “I always knew he had it in him.”

“Oh, shut it,” Yurio mutters before going back to his phone.

Victor’s grin stretches even wider. “Look at my son, helping others in need--”

“I’m not your son, Nikiforov!”

“Oh, babushka,” Victor says, “you’ll always be my son, no matter how old you get.”

Yurio flips him off and physically turns his body away from the conversation.

Yuuri thinks that this is the most domestic situation he’s ever been in. For a second, it terrifies him, because Victor is only staying three more weeks, and after Opening Night, he’s going back to St. Petersburg to train Yurio for Nationals and beyond. This domesticity, surprising Yuuri with the sheer comfort of it, will not last.

He eats the last fish ball in his guaitiao as if trying to will all his problems away.

“What did the reporters ask?” Yuuri says absentmindedly. The thought still looms in his mind: Victor is a good person, and he’s leaving. No matter what happens, he is going to leave Yuuri behind.

Victor threads his fingers through his hair. “They wanted to know specifics about our fictional relationship. And because you told me you were fine perpetrating this fake relationship, I spilled all the details.” He shines a wicked grin, every inch of his body begging Yuuri to ask for details.

Yuuri finds he can’t resist. “And what particular...secrets did you spill?” He leans in, almost nose to nose with Victor, who won’t stop showing his teeth in his smile, and something about it pulls Yuuri in so close.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Victor whispers.

“I would, in fact,” Yuuri says, and he can see that even Victor is affected by the close contact, the spots turning red high on his pale cheeks, how Victor’s pupils are dilating and his eyelashes, as silver as his hair, are fluttering, almost touching Yuuri’s skin.

“You know, there were questions about how we met, what attracted me to you--” Victor’s hand skirts up Yuuri’s thigh, and it takes everything Yuuri has got to not start, or jump, to not alert Yurio that anything different is happening. Victor’s strong, muscular hands rub circles on his knees, and Yuuri’s legs are almost spread wide enough to touch Victor’s own legs, long and skinny and apparently unaffected.

“But?” Yuuri breathes in a harsh pant.

“But there were other...less savory questions,” Victor confirms. “Questions about your...preferences. About how I enjoyed you in bed.”

“And?” Yuuri’s voice cracks, sweat beading on his lips. He is so close to Victor in every conceivable way, and yet so far.

“Whether I liked to fuck you, or you liked to fuck me,” Victor breathes. “Who was most likely to break the bed.”

“And what did you say?”

Victor’s hands are curling around Yuuri’s bony hips. “Well, I could tell you, or I could show you.”

Yuuri’s hands are cold, digging into Victor’s muscular arms. He looks deep into Victor’s eyes. It’s now or never. “I would like that very much.”

Victor smiles into Yuuri’s ear. “You would?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, more confident this time. “Let’s do this.”

Victor’s hands grip onto Yuuri, and Yuuri knows he will have bruises even before any fucking begins. “Okay. What’s the quickest way back to the hotel?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question of the chapter: Who tops? ;)


	5. the bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor turns to Yuuri. “We have thirty floors before we get to the room,” he says.
> 
> “Make out session?” Yuuri guesses.
> 
> “It’s like you read my mind.”

Yurio insists he’s taking the next elevator up to his room. “I’m a grown ass teenager; I’ll be fine,” he says through gritted teeth.

Victor’s hand has snuck under the back of Yuuri’s jeans minutes ago, and neither one of them really wants to argue the point. Yuuri’s entire face is covered in sweat and he’s discovered a (new) nervous tick he never knew he had until Victor decided it was entire appropriate and decent to start delving into his clothes in a public MRT.

“Are you sure?” Victor asks mildly. His voice hasn’t constricted with lust and embarrassment yet, and he isn’t fighting to breathe without seeming like he’s run a marathon. He even looks cool, like nothing inappropriate is happening, even though Yuuri can feel his hand, red-hot against his ass, and would argue that point.

“Absolutely. I’m already scarred for life. I’m taking the next elevator.”

Victor shrugs as the elevator dings and he and Yuuri step onto one that has no glass and is empty. Yurio flips them off as the doors close.

Victor turns to Yuuri. “We have thirty floors before we get to the room,” he says.

“Make out session?” Yuuri guesses.

“It’s like you read my mind.” Victor grabs Yuuri by his shoulders and draws him in, tilting his head down to get at Yuuri’s mouth. Yuuri stands on the balls of his feet to reach Victor, feeling the man’s large hand squeeze at his ass and pull him in until they’re standing pressed against one another, their lips intertwined and Victor pulling on him.

They’re giving the elevator security guard a show, no doubt, but this is Thailand. The security guard has seen shows before.

The elevator dings and stops on a floor that isn’t the thirtieth, and Yuuri forcibly pulls himself off Victor, covering his face with a hand and miming coughing as disgruntled businessmen in pressed suits get on, not looking at anyone’s face and just filling the elevator as the doors close.

In the reflection of the marble walls, Yuuri can see that his hair is sticking up in odd places and his shirt is wrinkled already. He wonders if anyone else can see that his knees are literally shaking from the effort of holding his body up.

Across from him, Victor gazes at Yuuri through eyes hooded by hair falling unevenly over his face. Except for the hair, he looks utterly unruffled by the recent events, hands stuck in his pockets and leaning against the wall, looking at Yuuri with a one-track interest.

Yuuri meets his eyes, daring him to continue to look at him when the tension grows to a breaking point until someone has to look away. Unsurprisingly, it’s Yuuri.

The elevator dings at the thirtieth floor and Victor walks out, a swagger in his gate, nodding at Yuuri to come along, twirling his room key between his fingers like a promise. Yuuri follows him. The hall is empty of other people, and even with more security cameras in the corners, Victor takes this as permission to ravish Yuuri right next to the door leading to his room, pushing him against the plush wall and leaning in to seal their lips again in a kiss.

Yuuri slides his hands underneath Victor’s shirt and feels Victor shivering at his touch, his rock-solid abs contracting as Yuuri slides his hands up, clenched around the outline of his pecs, revelling in the definition of his muscles, how his shirts are too baggy to showcase his physique.

Victor laughs into Yuuri’s mouth. “Like what you feel?”

“You bet,” Yuuri breathes, and unlike Victor’s seductive voice, his is high-pitched and cracking out of desperation. “I’d even take my...appreciation of your body to the next level.”

“Oh,” Victor grins, “I think I’d like that.”

Behind them comes footsteps and the unmistakable sound of a lanky Russian teenager pretending, loudly, to gag.

“I can’t BELIEVE you two are in the hallway!” Yurio screams, and when Yuuri looks beyond Victor to the teenager covering his eyes with theatrics reserved for reality TV, he giggles.

Yurio peeks through his fingers. “Oh, I’m so glad the pig thinks it’s funny. Amazing. While I’M being humiliated in front of God and everyone! My reputation is going down the toilet!”

Victor pats Yurio’s shoulder as he runs past them. “Don’t worry; we’ll always love you.”

“THAT SOUNDS SO WRONG!” Yurio screams, shoving his keycard in his own room door like he’s trying to get them to procreate. “If I hear you after you get naked, so help me God, Nikiforov!”

“Yeah, you’ve called on him twice already,” Yuuri says, “and he hasn’t come to strike us down. I think you’re out of favors.”

Yurio proceeds to flip them off and tell them that he’s Tweeting this so that the world shares his pain.

After he slams his hotel door shut with a sound that resonates throughout the entire hall, Yuuri and Victor look at each other.

“Well, I guess our fake relationship isn’t fake any longer,” Victor says. “Do you want me to stop him?”

“No,” Yuuri waves him off. “No one knows it was fake the first time. And anyways, I think we might have something slightly more important to attend to.”

“Oh right.” Victor skims his hands over Yuuri’s jeans, just narrowly missing the obvious tent in them. “Well, I could never keep you waiting--”

“And yet here we are.” Yuuri shakes his head and fake-tsks. “Here we are, Nikiforov.”

“Mm,” Victor agrees, giving him a peck on the cheek as he opens the door to his hotel room. With the mood slightly broken, both walk in and Yuuri takes his first long look around the inside of where rich people stay. Of course, he’d been to a nice hotel during the last Grand Prix Final, and had become intimately acquainted with the toilet. And Chris’s bed.

Anyways, moving on from thinking about Chris--

Victor removes his laptop and several pairs of dirty clothes from his bed, grinning and looking around. “Well, this is where I make my humble abode.”

“Humble, my ass,” Yuuri breathes.

“Speaking of which…” Victor grins at him and crooks a finger, the unspoken signal clear. Come here.

“Well, if you insist,” Yuuri mumbles, stripping his shirt off as he climbs on top of the man, straddling him, and pushes him down onto the giant bed that feels like it is made of clouds. His knees sink into the comforter. He could lie here forever, until Victor cups his hands around Yuuri’s cheeks and pulls him in for a kiss.

“Hey, we’re the same height now,” Yuuri notes as he wraps his legs around Victor’s muscular back.

“We are,” Victor agrees when they separate to gasp for air. “Anything particular you want to try?”

It takes a moment of Yuuri’s mind being fully enthused by making out to notice that Victor is referring to the entire act of sex. Which Yuuri is now doing. With Victor. Oh boy.

“What did you tell the reporters?” Yuuri asks.

“Oh, nothing,” Victor says, running his hands down Yuuri’s chest and marvelling at how goosebumps seem to follow his tender touches. “For instance, I didn’t tell them how my fat cock would ram into you at all hours of the morning, or how I would finger you raw, first--if that’s what you mean. I just referred obliquely to the size of my feet and went from there.”

“It is what I mean now,” Yuuri squeaks, his throat constricting again. “But hey, you can’t just tell reporters that you top in our fake relationship.”

“Were you planning on another course of action?” This time, Victor’s hand does brush past the tent in his jeans, and Yuuri’s entire body shudders.

“M-maybe,” Yuuri stutters. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it, since it wasn’t an actual option until a day ago. And he’s been so busy since then. “But you can explain what you’re going to do to me first.”

Victor reaches between them and unbuttons Yuuri’s jeans, sliding them down his legs until Yuuri is almost completely unclothed on top of a fully clothed Victor. Completely unfair.

“Such a tease,” Victor breathes. “Okay. So, if I were to top, I would grasp your--your really fucking long cock--and I would pull you up a little bit more, until you were over mine.” Victor wraps his hands under Yuuri’s ass and pulls him up, until Yuuri is sitting on the tent of Victor’s own hardness.

“And?” Yuuri groans, pressing down until Victor sucks in a breath. It’s the first time he has looked less than completely put together.

“And?” Yuuri repeats, rolling his hips until Victor’s lips, reddened and swollen, open to let a sigh out.

“I’d let you ride me,” Victor says slyly. “Just bounce on me until your thick thighs couldn’t handle it, and you’d collapse.”

“I bet my thighs could handle it for longer than you could,” Yuuri says. After all, he’s seen Victor’s thighs, and they are completely full of muscle used to guide his skates across the ice, but Yuuri has seen himself in the mirror.

Victor raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

“Would you bet on it?” Yuuri asks. “I’ll ride you now, and you’ll ride me later, and we’ll time ourselves.”

Victor purses his lips and Yuuri leans down to go between them and kiss him. Victor pulls Yuuri’s entire body down between them as they kiss again, filling the air with half-breathed sounds mostly vibrating between their lips.

“Well?” Yuuri asks as he comes back up, framing Victor’s face and his magnificent hair spread out around him with his hands. “Do we have a deal?”

Victor traces Yuuri’s face with a finger. “I think, Yuuri Katsuki, we have a deal. However, this might have to stretch to after another meal, because I’m not going to be able to get it up again--”

“I understand,” Yuuri says, smiling sweetly, “old man.”

“Hey,” Victor protests, and Yuuri stifles the complaint by helping Victor take off his shirt, revealing the expanse of glistening muscles in the light. “I’m not old!”

“Sure you’re not,” Yuuri says, pulling Victor’s own pants down and off his ankles, ridding both of them of all clothes to bask in the sight of Victor, at the height of his physicality, under him. Because he is about to ride Victor, and be able to look at that beautiful face, ringed in his angelic hair, as he comes, because Yuuri is apparently living in a dream. And will continue to live in this dream for the next few weeks.

“So,” Yuuri drawls, planting a smattering of kisses on Victor’s chest, working his way up his collarbone until presented with the smooth and symmetrical neckline, Victor’s breaths coming out in short little gasps. “How is this going to work?”

“I hadn’t thought about it that far,” Victor admits. “Give me a minute.”

“I’ll give you all the time you need,” Yuuri says, and goes back to work on the pinkening spots on Victor’s chest, wrapping his mouth around a spot above a pert nipple and sucking, rubbing it around in his teeth and watching it turn purple.

“Alright, I got it,” Victor pants. “There’s lube in my drawer, if you would be so kind.”

Yuuri has to wrap his legs around Victor’s chest to steady himself, leaning over to the bedside drawer and withdrawing the tube of lube. Under him, Victor groans in content, and when Yuuri looks down, he sees that his own engorged cock is inches from Victor’s mouth.

“This is a good position,” Victor breathes. “I can work with this.”

“I’m glad,” Yuuri says, “because I can do this--” He rocks forward and his cock brushes the edge of Victor’s lips, and Victor darts his tongue out too late to catch it.

“Yeah,” Victor pants. “Like I said, I can work with this. You see, because you can just come up a bit, and I’ll open you up with my fingers here, where I can see every inch of you, and you can rock right into my mouth.” Victor opens the cap and pours a bit on his finger.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, watching his cock touch Victor’s outstretched lips, watching it roll precome around on Victor’s chin. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

Victor grins, leaning up to kiss Yuuri’s head, and Yuuri feels one cold finger enter him. He stifles a snort, bubbling up inside of him at the worst possible time (not unlike that one time he had an urge to laugh at a funeral), and instead pressed back on it, watching how his cock bobbed up and back down onto Victor’s mouth.

This time, Victor juts his neck up and catches it in his mouth, surrounding the head of Yuuri’s blood-heavy cock with his lips and sucking on it. Yuuri’s hips jerk into Victor’s mouth, shallow thrusts dictated by the angle, as Victor’s finger runs in and out of him, and Victor’s hums around his cock.

Yuuri places a hand on the headboard of the bed and feels like a fucking pornstar about to break the headboard in the throes of passion, and adds his other hand against it, too. This way, he’s leaning over Victor, guiding the angle of his cock into the man’s mouth, able to push back onto the finger and the next one, watching Victor’s mouth fill and empty, spit shiny on his tip.

Victor puts another finger in, scissoring them inside Yuuri, and Yuuri can’t stop the litany of groans that escape him.

“I’m not sure that’s English,” Victor mumbles, his tongue out and licking slow and shallow stripes up and down his cock until the slit just slides against his top lip inside his mouth, and back out. It’s enough pressure Yuuri can feel it building something hot in his gut, but not enough to be in danger of losing everything.

“Of course it’s not English,” Yuuri protests. “I’m sure you don’t always speak English in the middle of sex.”

Victor almost looks offended. “Of course I do. I’m a professional.”

“Well, professional, see what happens when you actually get in me,” Yuuri preens. “Then we’ll see who’s talking.”

“That we will.” With that, Victor slides two more fingers in, and Yuuri bites down on a groan, half pleasure and half pain.

“Too much?”

“Not enough,” Yuuri says. “Only your cock will be enough.” He bears his hips back on Victor’s hand, clenching his muscles around the fingers, relishing the feeling of being stuffed.

“You say the sweetest things,” Victor says. “Are you ready?”

“Give me a minute,” Yuuri says, and pulls off of the fingers enough to slide his cock all the way down Victor’s mouth, watching more than the head disappear, watching Victor’s throat open for him inch after inch, seeing the white of Victor’s eyes as he bottoms out, feeling Victor’s warm throat around every part of him, shivering in anticipation.

Victor twirls his fingers inside Yuuri, each tip searching out the spot of knotted nerves, each seeking to open him and prepare him.

Yuuri pulls out of Victor’s mouth with a pop. “Okay, ready.”

Victor wraps his sticky hands around Yuuri and pulls him back down his chest until he’s lined up, and then grins up at Yuuri and says, “Whenever you wish.”

Yuuri sits down on Victor’s dick as quickly as possible, knocking the breath out of Victor in the process. A loud moan echoes around the room as Yuuri bottoms out and revels in the sensation, moving his hips until he’s completely centered and Victor’s cock is pressed up against the sweet spot inside of him.

“Still think you will last longer than me?” Yuuri says.

“Oh, definitely,” Victor breathes, but he waves absentmindedly and Yuuri gets the feeling that he isn’t that invested in the bet.

So Yuuri moves, using his clenched thighs to push himself up and then drop himself back, getting back into a rhythm he had half-forgotten, biting down on his lip to trap the noise in his throat so he can listen to Victor get wrecked.

It’s payback for the last hour, when Victor strutted around pretty and well-kept as you please, never letting more out of him than a sly smile, looking completely put together and in charge. Now he’s making more noises than Yuuri could ever imagine in his most outrageous fantasy, he’s clutching the headboard with white knuckles and choking on his own sounds, his own voice hoarse and scratching and curses tumbling out of his mouth, English intertwined with a brogue Yuuri doesn’t recognize.

Yuuri grins and does it again. So Victor isn’t always a professional.

He reminds him of such. “Such a professional, Nikiforov,” he teases, rubbing a finger through the mess his cock made on Victor’s chin. Victor lets him do it, sitting there boneless as Yuuri digs his knees into the comforter made of dreams and brush his hand over the purpling spots on his face and neck.

“I do have an image to maintain,” Victor says, and this time he’s breathless and his voice is cracking. Yuuri bounces up again until he can feel Victor’s cock at his entrance, staying in him by the sheer force of his clenched ass, and rolling downward, relishing the sound of the lube and the accompanying sound of Victor being strangled.

“And would this be the image you want everyone to see? The great Russian figure skater, an icon of his country, being absolutely demolished by gay sex?”

Victor cracks a wry grin. “Well--ah, just don’t tell Putin.”

Yuuri laughs. “Right, I’ll make sure to do that.” And he embarks on a journey to make Victor Nikiforov lose his fucking mind to the rhythm of the slaps of his thighs on Victor’s chest, and all banter becomes a long-lost memory. He rolls up and snaps back down, and with each thrust Victor’s cock buries itself in a different angle, exploring a new part of him. Yuuri can feel his cock through his stomach, poking, searching, and pushes his hand back on his flat stomach.

Victor groans, his neck extended, mouth eternally half open and his lips purpling, his silver hair draping his face, more beautiful than it has any right to be. His hands are both attached to the headboard as if they have to be there and he just lies there and takes what Yuuri wills to give him. And Yuuri wills to give him quite a lot.

Yuuri makes sure to squeeze his ass around the cock as soon as he bottoms out each time, until he can almost feel Victor’s pulse through it, Victor’s body stretching at the sensation and his head cocking to the side, sighing.

“You’re not going to last long,” Yuuri marvels, palming at his own cock.

Victor opens one eye. “Of course not,” he says, and he sounds wrecked but still very much Victor Nikiforov. “It’s you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri doesn’t stop the steadily increasing rhythm, but he does squeeze his own hand around his cock, a full-body shiver running through him.

“You liked that,” Victor says. “Oh, we’re going to have the best of fun, Yuuri.”

“Please,” Yuuri just breathes, and it’s all he can say, his hand tight around his own pleasure, ready to spill. “More.”

“You’re the only one that could ever make me like this,” Victor says, the words pouring out of his mouth like a fountain of honey. “You’re the only one for me, ever since I saw your performance in the Cup of China, ever since I saw you win on the TV and the audience loved you, and you were so overwhelmed by the lights and the showbiz and couldn’t believe there were actually people cheering at you. And then in the Prix, with your step sequence mesmerizing everyone...I couldn’t believe you didn’t know I saw you. I couldn’t believe you looked away from me at every chance you got. And then I came here, and you blushed at every comment I made. Your blush is so pretty, you turn red all the way from here--” Victor touches the tips of Yuuri’s ears, “to here.” He ghosts his hand over Yuuri’s hard cock, suddenly adding a third hand to it.

Yuuri doesn’t stop rocking, but bobs faster, and Victor wraps his own hand around Yuuri’s hands, stroking with them, squeezing with them, faster and faster and never looking away from Yuuri’s eyes until the blush recreates, spreading from the tips of his ears, down his fair chest, and down to the already-blushing cock. Victor continues to pump Yuuri’s cock even as Yuuri uses his hands to clutch the sheets, speeding up his riding until it’s out of sync but oh so good, until Yuuri spills over Victor’s hands and sheets without ever so much as a sound, bearing down on Victor, a single intent in his eyes.

Victor wipes Yuuri’s come on his own chest, watching Yuuri track his every movement, and puts his hands behind his head. “Do your worst,” he grins.

Yuuri does his absolute worst, continuing to clench around Victor while fully in and also while moving, until the drag builds the pleasure in Victor’s balls and he can only warn Yuuri with a series of groans, growing louder with every passing second until Victor chokes off his sound, shaking, coming.

Yuuri continues to move relentlessly until Victor begs him to remove himself, the aftershocks too painful, and Yuuri pulls off immediately and sprawls next to Victor in the bed. They’re both panting in tandem, and Victor leans over to capture Yuuri’s sweaty face in a kiss.

“I don’t know if we can count that in our bet,” he says, “seeing as you stopped and still had effort left in you.”

“Yeah, I’m not even sore,” Yuuri says. “Well. My thighs aren’t sore. So I guess the bar has been upped to whether you can just outlast me.”

“Right,” Victor says. “Next time.” He’s suddenly tired, his eyes drooping, with Yuuri next to him, cocooned in his room with curtains that block out all light, so it could be any time in the night even though it’s only three in the afternoon.

Yuuri says hesitantly, “If you’re having second thoughts, you don’t need to.”

“I’m up for it,” Victor says. “I’m more up for it than you can tell, given my…” he gestures to his limp dick. “Give me an hour.”

Yuuri’s eyes grow wide as saucers. “An hour?” he says in fake dismay. “I’m afraid that’s too long…” He looks off in the distance dramatically. “When will my Vicchan spring back from the dead…”

“Oh, stop it,” Victor says, fluffing Yuuri’s short hair as he does. “I’ll get us some room service and then we’ll see how we are.”

“You’re on,” Yuuri promises, and hinders Victor’s path to the phone with kisses. “You’re going down, Nikiforov.”

“I am definitely going down...on you,” Victor says, and Yuuri groans. “That was amazing, come on. Anyways, I need to get to the phone, if you’ll stop kissing me for one second!”

“Mmmm. What if I kissed you somewhere lower?”

Victor blinks. “That...that works,” he says tactfully, and watches Yuuri slink down on his body.

This man will be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of y'all thirsting for top!Yuuri, it will happen soon, do not worry...
> 
> Question of the chapter: Since I am eternally grateful for all of you for supporting this work and would like to show my appreciation to you through leaving kudos & comments on YOUR works, what work of yours would you most like me to read? (Consider it a late Christmas present! :D)


	6. coaching, pt. ii: now with angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor says smoothly, “We’re not dating.”
> 
> Phichit frowns. “I’m pretty sure Yuuri has drunk-texted me a few times about the sex you’re having.”
> 
> “Well,” Victor amends, “it’s not serious.”

On Love: Agape comes on over the surround speakers, and the skaters take their positions on the ice, poised and ready to explode into a flurry of movement. As soon as the bass line starts, Yuuri is no longer a statue for the audience to observe, but one with the rest of the skaters, composed of friends and acquaintances and understudies he’s never met before, but he is moving and in line with the rest of them, fluid and a part of this endeavor bigger than himself.

Yuuri moves and stretches with the army of skaters, filling the rink with their multicolored coats held on by safety pins and hope, spotlights shining over the crowd in strobe. Yuuri breathes in tandem with the rest of them, arching his back and completing the step sequence, matching footstep for footstep. His sole attention is on Victor, only on Victor, who is wearing a denim jumpsuit and his hair is in a braid bun that Yuuri himself tied this morning while lounging in bed.

Victor had spent the night at Yuuri’s apartment last night, as well as the nights before, and now everything in Yuuri’s apartment smells like the man’s cologne, and scrunchies are tucked behind the bed and deep in cabinets. Yuuri doesn’t want to give them back to Victor because that would be admitting aloud that this isn’t a relationship built to last. There’s one week before Opening Night, and one week and one day before Victor and Yurio fly back to Russia to continue their training, one week before Yuuri is left behind. Neither of them have talked about it.

Victor is nodding his head to the music, and as Yuuri dances up to the barrier he’s leaning on, Victor leans out and touches Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri bats his hand off, scowling at him.

Victor just winks.

Insufferable man. Yuuri shakes his head, continuing with the song. The seemingly inconspicuous Agape song ends in an explosion of balloons into the crowd, because Phichit wanted to keep the young children in the crowd interested, and because this is Tech Week, this is the first time Yuuri sees the spectacle live.

The dancers stop in their final poses, Yuuri crossing his arms and looking smugly at the audience, towards the middle of the rink. From his peripheral vision, hundreds of multicolored balloons drift from the back of the rink towards the front of it, where Victor and Yurio stand along with a few members of the press, preparing their initial remarks on the show.

Phichit’s voice squeaks over the loudspeaker. “Okay, cut, cut!” he says, and the dying notes of the song cut out. He’s standing in front of the skaters, holding a megaphone to his mouth. “Everyone, that was amazing, but the balloons are just not working. Is there a way to get a giant fan in the back to blow the balloons forward? Or just release them from the front?”

His main construction consultant looks at her clipboard and chews on a pen. “Fans would work,” she says to him.

“Right. Let’s have them by tomorrow.” Phichit claps his hands at the skaters. “Next song!”

He’s a born leader, Yuuri thinks as they meld seamlessly into the next song of their performance. All together, the Phichit! On Ice show should take an hour and a half to complete, with an album full of songs fused together and some live demonstrations scattered throughout the program to keep it lively and different. Yuuri is on the ice for almost the entire time.

When noon comes around after hours of grueling work--still less intense than preparing for the Grand Prix last year, though--Yuuri is ready to get some cheap noodles and chat with his parents for his lunch break. He steps out of the barrier, taking his blades off, and walks towards the locker room to get a towel.

Victor greets him before he makes it there. “Very good,” Victor comments, an iced latte in his hand. Wearing his denim jumpsuit and the knitted handmade scarf he apparently got from his sister, he looks like a hipster, and Yuuri definitely tells him so.

“I’m trying to feel like I’m home,” Victor tells him. “However, I’m not wearing even a single jacket, so it didn’t work.”

Yuuri feels a pang go through his heart. Of course Victor is homesick, having been away from Russia for this long--and in the suffocating perpetually-summer Thai air, no less. Nothing Yuuri has to offer: this rink at the mall or his one room apartment could be anything like what Victor must have waiting for him. Victor has eight days before he’s travelling back to the comforts of home, where it will be as cold as Victor tries to make it inside his own hotel room, degrees colder than Yuuri can bear. Yuuri is used to wrapping himself up in all the comforters on the big bed and refusing to share with the Russian.

“Are you okay?” Victor asks him. “You look a little pale. Maybe you need to come back with me and get some good St Petersburg air.”

Yuuri looks away. He knows Victor meant it as a joke, but being with Victor and having Victor trust him enough and care enough to take Yuuri with him would be a dream come true. It would be better than amazing. “I’m sorry; I’m booked in this show for ten months,” Yuuri shrugs. “Maybe after that.”

Victor nods. “Maybe then,” he echoes.

“Anyways, what did you want to say to me?”

“Oh!” Victor puffs up to his full height. “As your coach, I have to commend you on your step sequence. Even confronted by distraction--me--you performed admirably, and you will have to deal with more than that in front of crying toddlers.”

“Our target audience is not crying toddlers.”

“Nonetheless, this is an amazing show, and so you will have crying toddlers, and you must get used to their snotty hands reaching out and touching you--” Victor sneaks his hand onto the small of Yuuri’s back.

Yuuri shrieks and bats his hand off. “Don’t do that, you scared me!”

“What? Oh, it’s only me, the poor and pitiful ghost of a crying toddler!” Victor wheedles, scrunching his face up into a caricature of lewdness and reaching for Yuuri with wiggling fingers. “Come to me, oh wonderful dancer--”

“Ugh. I will if you act like yourself,” Yuuri says, and in a heartbeat Victor is back to himself.

“I’m back,” Victor announces.

Yuuri lightly punches him in the shoulder. “Lunch?” he says.

Victor winks. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

*

When they return from lunch, hand in hand, Phichit is hanging out by the soda vending machine with someone else that Yuuri doesn’t recognize. As Yuuri watches Phichit gesture to something (probably a meme) on his phone, the other man huffs a laugh and pulls a strand of hair out of his eyes. He’s a little taller than Phichit, leaning over him and almost touching.

Victor scrunches his eyes. “Is that--Guang Hong?”

The man looks up from the meme. He blinks. “Victor?” he drawls, and then rushes over to Victor to envelop him in a bear hug. “Out of literally anywhere in the world, I didn’t expect to see you here!”

“Oi!” Phichit says, looking up and glowering at Guang Hong. “Out of anywhere in the world? This is a prestigious skating experience, Guang Hong. Of course he’d be here and not--not--” Phichit waves at Victor to finish the sentence.

“Antarctica,” Victor finishes.

“No, but Antarctica would have some nice ice to skate on, so it’s possible he would be there,” Guang Hong says. “And--hey, it’s the man of the hour. Katsuki Yuuri!”

Yuuri is suddenly in the spotlight, focused on by all three men, of which two have recently been exchanging memes. He makes sure the noodles he had for lunch stay down, and Victor’s hand on his back, warming and encouraging him, stabilizes him.

“Hi,” he says, and doesn’t know how to greet Guang Hong. Should he bow? The man’s ease with English makes it difficult to determine his nationality. He could be Korean, or Mongolian, or--

Guang Hong extends his hand for Yuuri to shake, and Yuuri grabs it, his cold sweat evaporating.

“I watched your performance last year,” Guang Hong tells him, “with Phichit.”

“You were together in Detroit?” Yuuri asks. “How have I never met you?”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t in Detroit,” Phichit explains. “Canada. He knows JJ.”

Yuuri scratches his head. “JJ...now where have I heard that name before?”

“It’s on the only shirt Yurio deigns to wear,” Victor supplies. “You’re really out of the skating loop now that you’re not training for Nationals.”

“Right, JJ! He’s dating Otabek. And is Canadian.” Yuuri nods. What a great first impression he’s making on Guang Hong. It’s really wonderful, how put together he is.

“We’ve been Internet friends since Four Continents a few years ago, and bonded when he came down to Detroit last year.”

“So he’s...an internet friend.” Yuuri looks Guang Hong up and down to tell him wordlessly that if he messes with Phichit, Yuuri will fuck him up.

Guang Hong nods.

Phichit says, “I asked Guang Hong to come here because you’re getting Victor all to yourself after you started dating, and I was feeling left out; ergo, Guang Hong.”

“Dating?” Yuuri mutters. “We’re not--um, we’re not--” He taps Victor to help him out.

Victor says smoothly, “We’re not dating.”

Phichit frowns. “I’m pretty sure Yuuri has drunk-texted me a few times about the sex you’re having.”

“Well,” Victor amends, “it’s not serious.”

“Right,” Yuuri says. “And I drunk texted you?”

“Yeah,” Phichit says. “Quite a few times. Do you not remember?”

“No,” Yuuri muses. “Guess I’m a forgetful drunk.”

Victor looks at him. “So do you not remember doing body shots a few days ago?”

Yuuri quickly looks around the room. Aside from these men lounging around the vending machine, no one can hear them, but still. Propriety. “Shh!” He fumbles with his next words. “And--we did what?”

Victor sighs. “Body shots. It was amazing. I guess we’ll just have to do them again sober.”

“I guess,” Yuuri says.

Phichit says with forced cheer, “Oookay, well, back to a family-friendly topic of conversation we can all participate in!”

Everyone lapses into silence.

“Guess the only thing we talk about is sex, now,” laments Yuuri wryly, and he and Victor fistbump in unison. It’s like they’re completely in sync, and if only he and Victor were actually dating, complete with declarations of love and professions to stay with each other forever. But Victor is leaving, and he’s no more permanently a fixture in Yuuri’s life than Guang Hong.

“Ew,” Phichit crumples his nose. “Did I mention I was completely grossed out by the drunk texting? I’m mentioning it now. Never do it again.”

Yuuri nods, absolutely mortified.

“Right.” Phichit looks at his phone again. “I guess lunch break is over now. All skaters, back to your positions!”

So Yuuri takes his position back on the ice with the other skaters, and notes that Victor and Guang Hong both watch from the sidelines, leaning on the barrier next to each other.

*

The mall at six in the afternoon is hectic, and it seems everyone from south Bangkok is here, squeezing between Yuuri and Victor and Yurio, armed with shopping bags and chattering with their friends, more well-dressed than Yuuri would ever hope to be.

Victor slings his arm around Yuuri’s freshly-showered shoulder as they traverse the mall. “You know, I’ve never really been to the lower levels,” he comments. “I’ve always wanted to stay within seeing distance of you.”

“Aw,” Yuuri says, leaning into the touch. Thai culture presumes that all touches in public, including holding hands or slinging arms around shoulders, happen between lovers, and friends would never touch each other in such a simple and intimate way as Victor is touching Yuuri now.

Yuuri fumbles with his glasses so they won’t fog up. He is pretty sure Victor might actually know this fact, and is just trying to prove to everyone around him that they are together, and were together in a more literal sense ten minutes ago in the locker room showers.

“So, how about we explore the ground floor?” Victor asks. “I’m sure there’s something there that would appeal to all of us, the child included.”

Yurio walks behind them, headphones on and keeping a scowl under control. Apparently he’s also learned some important tidbits of Thai culture, being that showing intense emotion means that someone is immature.

Yuuri had overheard Otabek telling Yurio so during the last song of the performance, when Yuuri made his triple axel and only overshot it a little, landing with two skates instead of one. Progress.

Otabek was drinking his third Oishi of the afternoon, still yawning. Yuuri knew it was his third because Phichit made such a commotion over the first two, concerned that his friend wasn’t getting enough sleep and he needed to make sure to get nine hours a sleep a night until Opening Night.

Otabek had just nodded and reminded Phichit that he was part of a long-distance relationship, and in order to spend time with his boyfriend, he needs to stay up until two in the morning.

It was at that moment that Yurio vocally made his appearance at the sound booth, loudly proclaiming that maybe it would be better if Otabek didn’t have a long-distance boyfriend, and that he should break up and be better off in every way.

Otabek just said, calm as ever, “That’s not very mature of you.”

Yurio had snapped his mouth shut like it was raining fire and turned beet-red. “Um,” he managed.

“Here, if you want to get a point across and have people respect and pay attention to your opinion, you say it in a serene and unemotional manner.”

“Right.” Yurio screwed up his face and put all his adolescent effort into reigning in his emotions. From the back of the skaters, Yuuri was fascinated by the energy he spent following Otabek’s will, obsessing over him like Yuuri warned him not to. “Okay. Otabek, unemotionally and detached, I think that you should break up with JJ. He’s bad for you.”

Otabek gave him a thumbs-up. “Good first try. Now, try your point again, and scowl less.”

Yurio pasted a smile on his face and said through gritted teeth, “Otabek, dump JJ.”

“Hmm,” Otabek nodded. “I would give that try a seven out of ten. Phichit?”

Phichit had sparkles in his eyes, one eyebrow raised. “I would say ten out of ten. You would make a great statue, how unemotional you are, Yurio.”

As Yuuri watched, Phichit and Yurio fistbumped behind Otabek’s back as the man shook his head and returned to his job.

Now, Yurio walks behind his father figure and his father’s fling, and Yuuri can see Otabek’s words rolling around in his head. He can’t afford to show emotion if he wants to win Otabek’s approval, and winning Otabek’s approval means becoming better friends, but that will never lead to what Yurio wants.

Yuuri remembers the day Yurio calmed him down from the panic attack and wants to return the favor. So he ducks out from under Victor’s arm and approaches the boy--he’s still three years from becoming an adult, barely old enough to qualify for the Senior competition he’s planning on winning--and says, “Yurio, I know you’re disappointed. I know you’re struggling with your feelings. What would calm you down?”

Yurio doesn’t seem like he’s heard Yuuri, looking right past him and onto the back of Victor’s head. “If--fuck, if Victor spent at least as much time with me as he does with you! I know I can’t do anything with Otabek, I know he doesn’t want me, I’m a child. I get it! But Victor promised to coach me! He took a break from his own career to teach me, and the last few months have been amazing. I’ve learned so much! But then he decides to come here, out of the blue, just because of a fucking Snapchat Phichit sent him of your performance, and now he won’t even give me the time of day!”

Victor has stopped walking, gazing at Yurio with open astonishment. Other people are also gawking at Yurio’s open display of rage, which may have been acceptable in Russia for a child to do, but here is scandalous.

Yurio’s lower lip trembles, and his eyes dart at everyone looking at him. He was used to being the center of attention, and then had to learn to be a part of the background, and to be suddenly the focus of everyone’s concern and astonishment is too much for a teenager to bear.

Yurio turns around and walks away, leaving Yuuri and Victor behind.

Yuuri turns back to Victor. “Did you know?” he whispers.

Victor, an expert at hiding his emotions under a smile, can’t even seem to muster that. He shakes his head. “I didn’t,” he says, sounding absolutely gutted. “I--I just thought he was infatuated with Otabek. I didn’t think it was me. I need to go talk to him.”

“No,” Yuuri says, grasping Victor’s hand.

Victor looks at him with an expression like he doesn’t know who Yuuri is anymore.

“No, that’s not what I meant--he’s a teenager who just expressed his hidden emotions in front of you, and you’re the closest thing to a father figure he’s got. When you were a teenager, did you want your parents to come after you in a scene like that?”

“Well, of course, all I wanted was for them to apologize and tell me my emotions were valid,” Victor says. “And I want to do that for Yurio.”

“But right away?” Yuuri prods. “I know your time as a teenager was when dinosaurs roamed the earth, while mine was just a few years ago, but I distinctly remember wanting to be by myself for a while to calm down.”

“Oh,” Victor nods. “You’re suggesting we give him time.”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

Victor nods several times. By this time, the crowd has lost interest in the screaming world-class skater and moved on to more interesting things, and they are left standing alone in the middle of the mall, jostled by all sides.

“I’ll give him half an hour,” Victor says, “long enough for us to eat. And then I’m confronting him and try to--fuck, give him more time. I didn’t know he actually thought of me as someone to spend time with; you know, the quips about being his father were just jokes.”

“I know,” Yuuri says. “But he internalized it, and he desperately wants your approval and time. So are you going to spend time with your son even while coaching me, or not?”

“Definitely,” Victor says. “He’s a little shit, but he’s my little shit, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Yuuri nods sagely. “And--hey, you came here on a whim because you saw a Snapchat of Phichit’s? That doesn’t sound like you.” He hooks his arm in Victor’s again.

Victor huffs a laugh. “Oh, that. Phichit recorded your duet dance, especially the part where you undershot your jumps and fell, and as soon as I saw you, I knew I had to come here.”

“That’s not creepy at all.” Yuuri has a smile on his face. Victor came all the way to Thailand for him. If only he could stay because of him, too.

“Not at all,” Victor assures.

*

“Okay,” Victor says, assuming Phichit’s regular position on the ice. “You have one week before you have to do this in front of hundreds of people. Go.”

Yuuri puts on his headphones with the final pair skating song playing, and he and Victor start their songs at the same time, as if it was playing for them both to hear. But Otabek has gone home an hour ago and the rink is dark, sweat is soaking into Yuuri’s skin from a hard day of practice that’s not done yet, and Victor seems as good as new.

He and Victor circle each other. The Russian man is much taller than Phichit, but Yuuri doesn’t falter on his step sequence as he tries to portray the type of friendship he would with Phichit. But Victor’s hand slides around his waist, and Yuuri shivers, and Victor leans in so close their lips could almost touch, and Yuuri stumbles.

Victor says, “I’m trying to be Phichit here, you know. Stop acting like you want to make out with me.”

“I know. I’m trying,” Yuuri mumbles. “But you’re doing it on purpose.”

But he’s Victor; he’s nothing like Phichit. His movements are more intentional but less graceful, used to drawing the thousands of eyes in the audience to him alone, giving them the best show they’ve ever seen, but not used to sharing the rink with someone else, balancing the dynamic out to give the other partner their chance in the limelight.

And Victor is only going to stay the one more week until Opening Day. After next week, Yuuri’s apartment won’t smell like his cologne any longer, and he won’t hear Victor snoring next to him while asleep, and he won’t be able to talk about nothing and everything in between at all hours of the morning, and there will be an emptiness to him every time he skates this song with Phichit.

“Pay attention,” Victor chides as Yuuri misses a step and tries to make up for it, understepping and getting swatted by Victor.

“I’m trying,” Yuuri says. But Victor will soon be gone and Yuuri will be alone again, and Victor doesn’t owe him anything. Yuuri doesn’t want to inconvenience Victor by being one of those people who hang onto his every word and never let him go, because it’s not like this is a surprise. This is what was going to happen from the beginning.

But Yuuri is still too attached.

When Yuuri jumps, he lands correctly, and Victor claps for him, but after the song has ended and Victor is hugging him and murmuring dirty plans to him because he did so well, Yuuri just stares off into the corner of the empty rink and thinks that he’d rather this never happened to him, because he doesn’t know if he can deal with the fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that school has started again, updates will be a little slower, but there's only 2-3 chapters left, so!!
> 
> Question of the chapter: If Phichit! on Ice were an actual skating show, what songs do you think would be included in the repertoire?


	7. calm before the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor leans in. “What happened?”
> 
> “You’ve probably heard this from Chris himself,” Yuuri mumbles.
> 
> “But I’m not asking Chris, am I,” Victor says solemnly. “I’m not here with Chris, am I. I’m here with you, and I want to hear the story from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy (early) valentine's day everybody! ~~where has the time gone smh~~

Breakfast turns out to be room service eaten in relative silence in Victor’s hotel room with Yuuri and Victor both in various stages of casual undress, hair unkempt and hickeys faintly visible in the early morning light.

“So,” Victor says, finishing his salad, “tomorrow. The big day.”

“Yep.” Yuuri chews on his tasteless food, staring into a corner. He can’t be bothered to feel anything but the thrum of his heart, the cool air conditioning against his skin fluttering nerve endings. Yuuri knows that if he tried to feel anything--if he even looked at Victor, or touched him--he would immediately be thrown headlong into a panic attack.

So he closes his eyes and feels nothing but the air, the bland food digesting in his stomach and his hands shaking around nothing, in the middle of the air, swimming in an ocean of nothingness. He can’t have a panic attack, he can’t afford it, not now with the last precious moments with Victor--and he can’t even spend it with Victor, but only inside himself.

Because Victor is going to leave.

Victor’s hand presses against his shoulder, and Yuuri wrenches himself out of Victor’s grasp. “Please,” he gasps. “Don’t.”

“Yuuri? What’s wrong?”

“I just can’t handle anything touching me right now,” Yuuri says, eyes still squeezed shut. His heart is hammering like a chainsaw, and the reaction he’s tried so hard to stop has been kickstarted, his breaths coming shorter now, his head hurting, hands shaking until they are an uncontrollable fire--

Until Victor covers Yuuri’s hands with his own.

Yuuri opens his eyes and can’t conceal it any longer, panting louder and shivering his entire body, goosebumps appearing on his skin as his heart feels like he’s being stabbed.

“Yuuri, breathe with me,” Victor says, surrounding Yuuri with his body in an all-encompassing hug. “Can you feel my breaths?”

Yuuri nods. Victor’s own calm heart beats against his palms, a soothing beat that grounds Yuuri in the midst of his body’s explosion. Yuuri curls up against him as he breathes through the panic attack, as Victor lulls him side to side, humming a long-forgotten lullabye and murmuring words Yuuri doesn’t understand but resonate in his heart. Yuuri gasps in air, his lungs refusing to cooperate and expand to fill with the air, and even as he breathes deeply, he still feels like he’s drowning.

“Come on,” Victor murmurs, rocking from side to side. “With me. Calmly. Close your eyes if you have to.”

Yuuri is aware that Victor is leaning against the headboard, Yuuri enveloped on his lap, legs tangled and swaying in slight circles. Yuuri drapes his head on Victor’s shoulder and closes his eyes, listening to Victor breathe in through his nose, trying to copy him.

An endless amount of time passes. It feels like all the stress of the day fades away, and Yuuri isn’t bound by the knowledge that within twenty-four hours he will be facing the spotlight. He doesn’t ponder that Victor is leaving in forty-eight hours, packing up the hotel room that now feels more like home than Yuuri’s studio, leaving Yuuri as a fun fling and nothing more.

Yuuri only thinks about Victor’s strong corded arms embracing him, grounding Yuuri’s physical presence, hair gently brushing Yuuri’s face. Victor is still crooning Russian lullabies, his deep and hoarse voice humming an unrecognizable melody. Yuuri feels like he could fall asleep in Victor’s arms, held just like this, swaying in the plush hotel, surrounded by the man he loves.

Yuuri opens his eyes. The man he loves.

“Oh,” he breathes.

Victor stops swaying. “Are you good?” he asks.

“I’m good,” Yuuri says, a smile tugging on his face at the domesticity of the conversation. He loves Victor. He really, truly does.

Victor leans in closer and whispers, “Are you good enough that you would be able to control your breathing under stress--say, if I went down on you?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Yuuri says, as Victor slithers out from under him, and Yuuri grabs some spacious pillows to lean against, sprawling against a now-padded headboard as Victor unties his bathrobe. Even the robe with the Shangri-La insignia can’t hide Yuuri’s growing interest at the situation, and he’s wearing absolutely nothing under it.

Victor unties the robe and pushes it away from the torso. Yuuri struggles to not heave in the dim lighting, keeping his breath under control.

Victor trails his hands down from Yuuri’s neck, absolutely covered in marks, down his gleaming chest, and to his stirring cock. Victor stretches out on the bed, feet hanging off the edge, and pushes Yuuri’s legs apart further, hands digging crescent moons into his thighs as he draws his mouth and hot breath ever closer.

Yuuri huffs, “Either do it or not, Victor, but the wait is killing me.”

“I can’t very well have you die on my hands,” Victor rolls his eyes, and swallows Yuuri down from tip to root in one gulp.

Yuuri leans his head against the pillows, breathing oh-so-slowly through his nose until the urge to pant and whine lessens. Victor asked him to control his breathing, so he’s going to control his breathing.

He risks a glance downward at the shock of long blond hair curled around his thighs, obscuring Victor’s face as he slowly rolls up and down. Yuuri reaches out a hand and gathers a fistful of that hair, pulling it back until Victor’s head travels with it, eyes meeting, his mouth glistening with spit and precome so visible in the light.

Yuuri grits his teeth, holds his breath, and clenches the hair tighter. Victor whines, and the sound is caught in his throat, all around Yuuri’s cock, as Victor only suckles around the tip. Yuuri groans deep in his chest, letting his breath out in a whoosh, and slowly pushes Victor’s head down on his cock, watching his throat constrict as he swallows it all again.

Yuuri knows his hands are vibrating again, but this time for an entirely different reason, holding the urge to pull Victor around by his hair, to push and rut and fuck and forego it all in favor of watching Victor take what he gives, watching his love swallow and feeling his tongue tracing words on his cock, as if to tease him to the edge.

He can’t look at Victor if he wants to last; he looks up at the ceiling and fixates at the fancy light bulb as he grabs more of Victor’s luscious hair with his other hand and pulls him back, pushes him down, feeling the rhythm in his arms and the sensation on his cock match.

Victor says something garbled, and Yuuri can look back at him as he pulls him completely off his cock. Spit-slick and shiny, it bounces in the air at the sudden release, and Victor licks his lips of the same color.

“What?” Yuuri rasps.

Victor clears his throat. “If it’s not too much to ask, I want to make you explode.”

“Oh, please,” Yuuri groans, and shoves him back on his dick.

Victor works of his own accord, sinking down and then swallowing, his cheeks hollowing against Yuuri, sensation enveloping every last inch of skin. And then he moves, faster than Yuuri can track, until all Yuuri can do is shudder his hips and come.

Victor doesn’t stop bobbing his head until Yuuri twitches in discomfort, pushing him off, and Victor swallowed every last drop, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and grinning up at Yuuri.

“So?” Victor asks, grinning. “You’re not hyperventilating, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says, even as he regains breath. “Thank you.”

Victor leans in to kiss the corner of Yuuri’s lips. “See? Now you know how to not panic in the middle of your performance. Just think of me sucking you off.”

Yuuri punches his shoulder. “That’s terrible advice. You should have never become a coach.”

“Baby,” Victor laughs, “I am the best coach you’ve ever met.” He falls into bed next to Yuuri, curling around him.

“You’re right,” Yuuri admits, after Victor has closed his eyes and snuggled up next to him. “You are the best coach I’ve ever met.” He slowly closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

Yuuri is rudely awakened by Victor shaking his shoulder.

“Mmm, five more minutes,” he groans, rolling over.

“Yuuri, this is important,” Victor says. He doesn’t sound worried, though, so it can’t be that important. Yuuri doesn’t even bother to open his eyes.

Suddenly the comforters cocooning him from the frigid air conditioning disappear, and Yuuri is widely aware that he is wearing no clothing.

He shoots up from the hotel bed and opens his eyes.

Next to him, Victor holds the bundle of comforters. The man looks very different from the pleasing, cocksucking image that entered his dreams, as he is now dressed in no less than a suit, hair washed and curled and cascading down his back, grinning at Yuuri.

Yuuri frowns. “Is it Monday already?” he asks, worry creeping into the back of his throat.

Before he can let his fears get the best of him like he did earlier that morning, Victor says, “Absolutely not. You’ve only been sleeping for five hours. It’s past lunchtime, and we have a full afternoon ahead of us!”

Yuuri wipes the sleep out of his eyes and pulls the comforters back from Victor’s arms, wrapping them around himself as he stands. “I thought we were going to stay in here today to rest up before the big day.”

“And that was the original plan,” Victor nods. “But then I called Phichit and he told me that you never had any time to see the sights of Bangkok, and aside from the Place and a few temples, you haven’t explored what all Thailand can do for you.”

“That’s not true,” Yuuri says, even though he knows, unequivocally, that he hasn’t had enough money to do the tourist things he’s wished.

Victor waves his hand. “So I decided to plan an afternoon itinerary. It starts in an hour, so you should have enough time to wash up and get dressed.” He holds up a dark crimson suit, the opposite to Victor’s own dark blue. “It’s for you.”

Yuuri gapes and takes the hangar. The suit is brand new, directly from one of the many tailor’s shops that dot the city, the price tag mercifully removed. He looks at Victor. “This is for me?”

“Of course. Phichit told me your measurements that he has from your stage costume, and I went out and bought us a complimentary set.”

Yuuri is still trying to wrap his head around that Victor just went out and bought two suits like it was nothing, and Yuuri doesn’t have enough money for coffee this month. He doesn’t dare touch the suit, hanging it up on the rack.

“What was your planned itinerary?”

Victor checks his phone. “First is a spa treatment--and don’t worry, your suit won’t be wrinkled or anything during that--and then a special dinner, and then a treat afterwards! I can’t tell you anything past that, so don’t even try to ask.”

Yuuri is still gaping.

Victor softens. “I just remembered how you showed me your favorite sight in Bangkok when I first got here, and I wanted to do the same for you. With a little help from your overinvested best friend, of course.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now get in the shower. You don’t have time to waste! Trust me, for this spa, you really want to be clean.” Victor winks.

Yuuri gives him a dirty look. “Please tell me this is an actual spa, Nikiforov, and not something out of a dirty fantasy of yours.”

“I’m offended,” Victor says. “Of course it’s a real spa. I wouldn’t give you anything less than the best, Yuuri Katsuki.”

An hour later, after scrubbing every inch of late night proclivities off his skin, Yuuri is dressed in his dark red suit and climbs into a taxi after Victor, who tells the driver to go to another hotel.

As they pass bustling streets peppered with motorbikes between cars, tall buildings cornering the highways, Yuuri says, “I thought we were going to a spa.”

“This is the best spa in the world, or so Phichit says. Too bad we’re staying at a different hotel. The Shangri-La definitely has an amazing spa--I tried it out myself--but Phichit said that the ride is worth everything here.”

As they pull up to the Mandarin Oriental, Yuuri lets Victor lead him through the lobby and follow a guide out the back. The hotel is on the edge of the flowing river, and Yuuri finds themselves walking to a small boat dock.

Victor grins at him as he boards. “Isn’t this going to be fun?” he says.

Yuuri nods, overwhelmed. The boat is immense, and yet they two are the only passengers, and are supposed to be the only ones there, Victor tells him with a sparkle in his eyes. The ornate teak shuttle is spacious and relaxing, the winter breeze flowing across the water, no sound except for a dull motor and the lapping of waves against the side of the boat.

Yuuri places his hand in the water, watching it run clear over his hands. He can almost see fish colored in flakes of orange somewhere deeper, but withdraws his hand.

“It’s so peaceful,” he says.

Victor lounges across from him. “Just imagine what lies in wait,” he says. “I figured you’d like a relaxing oil massage better than a Thai massage.”

“You figured correctly.”

“Besides,” Victor winks, “you need to be naked to get an oil massage.”

Yuuri blushes to the roots of his hair and looks away over the peaceful river. From here he can see all the way down the Chao Phraya river, the buildings growing from the riverbanks and the lights twinkling overhead. Better yet, there’s not much pollution in the middle of the river.

He and Victor don’t speak much during the boat ride, taking in the sights of Bangkok from a view neither of them have seen before, one Yuuri will not afford to see again. The boat gently docks at the other side of the river and they are ushered out in front of a traditional Thai building, with Lanna-inspired artwork adorning the walls. Yuuri is enraptured by the smell of incense and the wood carvings that decorate the house, as Victor signs them in and talks at the front desk.

Before he knows it, Yuuri is being whisked away and given a bathrobe to change into. He is very careful about shimmying out of the suit without wrinkling it, hanging it from another rack before being led into the room in which he is going to get a Thai massage. Victor is already on the wooden bed across from him, and the masseurs--multiple masseurs--have begun to work on his neck, exposing inches of skin that are red from faded hickeys.

Yuuri grins as he lies down on the other bed, closes his eyes, and is lost in the sensations of the oil massage. For someone who carries his stress in his neck, shoulders, back, and legs, the supple fingers rubbing into every tense spot, easing muscles, soothing every nerve in his body, almost puts Yuuri to sleep. For hours he is kept alert by the vague sensation, the only presence in his mind being a cloud of pleasure, undisturbed and complete. Like Victor rocking him in his arms, he has no worries or problems now, and nothing can bother him.

When Yuuri finally regains consciousness, the sun is waning in the sky through shuttered windows and the masseurs are finishing up his feet, rubbing circles into the pads of his aching, calloused feet. Yuuri doesn’t even know that his feet hurt until they don’t, until the strain of skating professionally dissipates into the chilly Thai air, and Yuuri is left with a contentedness that transcends mortal behavior.

Next to him, he’s sure Victor is experiencing it too, because Victor is making noises. He’s making a lot of noises, eerily reminiscent of something sexual, but Yuuri can’t bother to scold him because he’s having the time of his life.

Even after the massage ends and the masseurs leave, they leave Yuuri in peace, still on the edge of slumber, flexing his toes every so often to convince himself that they are still a part of his body even though he can’t feel anything.

*

“What’s our next visit?” Yuuri asks. He’s not bleary; there’s no real exhaustion to his yawns, but he is satisfied to his bone, every move just a little bit more languorous, as if he’s floating three inches off the ground. His suit is the most crisp part about his body.

Next to him, Victor shares a similar smile on his face. Every so often he will reach back to touch his shoulder blades, like he can’t believe there’s no pain accompanying a nod of his head. For the same reason, Yuuri flexes his toes inside his shined shoes.

Victor consults his phone. “For dinner, we have a six-course meal on a cruise ship that starts about five minutes from here. I figured we could just walk there.”

Yuuri has never been able to fork out enough money to attend a cruise down the Chao Phraya, even without a meal, but he doesn’t want to come across as poor (ignoring the fact that he is extremely poor) and just takes Victor’s hand.

The walk down the riverside is romantic in the dimming light, the sun tucking itself behind skyscrapers and shining a halo onto Victor’s already angelic hair. Strangers would be floored by their beauty together; Victor laughs at something Yuuri says, his shoulders scrunching up in delight, and Yuuri’s single dimple shows in his returning grin. Their hands intertwine, and the sunlight seems to fixate upon them, like their fingers are important somehow.

“You know what we need?” Yuuri says, words bubbling out of his chest like feelings. “Matching rings.”

Victor goes completely silent and stops walking.

It takes Yuuri a few seconds to catch up to what his mouth just said. “Oh, I didn’t mean--not like that,” he laughs, and Victor smiles back, continues walking. “I just meant like a trinket, a good luck charm. Everyone wears amulets here, but rings are more traditional. We could go the Western route and get something with a bit of gold in them, or we could embrace the East while you’re here and get some jade rings…”

Victor just squeezes his hand and offers no reply.

*

“Sorry we couldn’t get a private cruise,” Victor winks at him as the boat departs.

Yuuri looks around. The cruise ship is full of couples sitting on their own respective couches, curling up in the pillows, watching the sun go down and turning the river hazel. The waiters come around and pour white wine into everyone’s glass, the table in front of Yuuri filling with Thai finger foods.

The boat sways a little in the wind, and Victor’s hair flutters with the impromptu breeze. After being oiled, it shines a little more brightly, and Yuuri wants to reach out and touch it, so he does.

The wine glass hangs from Victor’s delicate fingers, frozen, as Yuuri touches Victor’s wonderful hair. He’s leaning over the table, and this is a romantic cruise, so no one will notice if he turns and sucks Victor’s face a bit.

Until the waiter clears his throat and refills Victor’s glass with more wine.

“By this rate, we’re going to get drunk,” Yuuri says.

“Oh, you don’t even know what our third stop is,” Victor winks.

“Are you seriously taking me to a bar? That’s the most stereotypical Bangkok thing to do.”

Victor shrugs, taking another sip. He’s too graceful to have any right to exist as a proper human on this earth, and yet here they are. “Well, when in Rome…”

Yuuri helps himself to the finger foods, and then the appetizer of prawns when the waiter drops it off. Victor eats less, content to just watch the skater prepare for the meet tomorrow by fortifying his body with everything he’s got. Yuuri ends up feeding him prawn at some point in the night, Victor chewing slowly, so close to his shaking hand.

Yuuri can’t get the image of matching rings out of his head as he stares at Victor’s hands. Whether they are lifting a spoon while eating soup or carving out a select portion of the delightfully rendered mango sticky rice, they are too thin, too pointed, and need a ring on them for balance.

Yuuri imagines rings that are the symbol of marriage, an eternal bond between two people, dressing in black as opposed to his current crimson and reciting vows to love Victor forever, slipping a golden band on his finger in front of his family and friends.

Better get him jade rings, to not seem desperate. The color and the symbolism should throw him off of the scent of Yuuri’s eternal love for Victor.

By nine, they lounge on their pillows, silently watching as Bangkok turns from an industrialized city to a brightly, colorfully lit nightlife, the skyscrapers cascading into color, kaleidoscopes of neons and pastels. The Chao Phraya is the calm in the middle of the storm that is the city without an end, always another party, always another laugh.

Yuuri sips Thai tea and wonders how he got here with Victor. This surreal month has all been because Phichit decided to Snapchat a living legend of ice skating, and Yuuri doesn’t know what clicked in the great Victor Nikiforov’s mind, but he arrived on Yuuri’s doorstep, prepared to coach him and flirt with him without end.

“Victor,” Yuuri starts. This is the perfect place for a confession: dark, romantic, on a river.

Victor smiles at him. “Yes, Yuuri?”

“I’m glad you came,” Yuuri whispers, and has to look away. He didn’t say the three words, he doesn’t have the gumption to say the words, but the meaning is still intact. He’s glad Victor is here not for the fame and the money that Victor brings--because, at the heart of it, the money means nothing--but for the effort Victor has invested in him, the actual genuine interest, the patient nature.

Victor smiles back. “I’m glad I came too, Katsuki Yuuri. Best decision I’ve ever made.”

Yuuri blushes, unnoticeable in the light, and meets his eyes. Victor’s unsaid meaning is as clear as day, too.

*

“I feel like you keep dragging me to hotels,” Yuuri says as they get out of their taxi. By now, the sun has fully set, and the Bangkok nightlife is alive and well. Victor’s phone proclaims that it is ten-thirty, and they are only now arriving at their third stop of the night, which is, apparently, a bar. A hotel bar.

“This is a special hotel,” Victor assures him as they enter the lobby and cram into an elevator.

“You say this about all the hotels,” Yuuri mock-protests, and cuddles next to him in the elevator. Memories return of their usual elevator exploits, which range between making out with clothes on and making out while beginning to take clothes off. Now they just stand against the railing, hands wrapped around each other’s shoulders, as Victor presses the button for floor sixty-one and Yuuri tries to look presentable.

“This bar only allows fashionable people to enter,” Victor says, “so I made sure that you looked the absolute best you could be.”

His eyes travel up and down Yuuri’s figure, and Yuuri runs a hand through his hair. “I think I’ve eaten too much to even think about tearing off clothes in an elevator,” Yuuri admits.

Victor agrees. They stand in companionable silence as the elevator reaches the top floor.

Victor steps out ahead of Yuuri, brandishes his arms, and says, “Katsuki Yuuri, welcome to the Moon Bar.”

The descriptor is not over exaggerating in any way. The sixty-first floor is not a floor at all, but the roof of the hotel, and Yuuri walks out and up a flight of stairs to see that the roof has been transformed into a restaurant and bar, lit with fluorescents and making the entire floor glow. Patrons are sparse at this time of night, and Victor talks with the host, revealing his reservation for two, and he and Yuuri are led to a table next to the edge of the roof, close to the bar.

When Yuuri reaches the edge of the roof, his breath catches in his throat. From this view, he can see all of Bangkok in its splendor. The glow of the roof accentuates the neon palate of the city, buildings all dwarfed under the sheer height of the Moon Bar. In the deep blue sky, the moon is full and lavishly shining upon its domain.

Yuuri feels like he could reach out and touch the tops of the buildings. Far below, on the street, cars with bright lights vye for superiority on the highways, and street food is sold in the numerous alleys. The city lies before him in a way unlike anything he’s seen before, and it’s all Yuuri can do to not cry. (His hormones are probably all weird from the massage and the food.) Victor has brought him a view that he will treasure for the rest of his life.

As he slowly returns to his table, Victor has already ordered and five drinks rest on their table. “I’ve heard this has the best bartending in the country,” he grins. “Mango margarita, appletini, daiquiri, pina colada, and a mai tai. Bottoms up.”

Yuuri and Victor clink their glasses and start to sip the oddly flavored alcohol. Yuuri had barely touched the white wine at dinner, and now he is glad of that decision, because even the daiquiri sits heavy in his stomach as Victor talks around a pina colada fizz moustache, smiling wider than normal, gesturing with his hands like crazy.

“Slow down,” Yuuri teases. “You’re Russian, not Italian.”

“I do respect the Western Europeans,” Victor says, and tries to gesture like an Italian, adopting a weird accent that sounds more Russian than anything else. “Um...baguette, Eiffel tower, pizzeria--am I getting there?”

“No,” Yuuri shakes his head. “You’re definitely not Italian. Sorry, Victor, but you are Russian, born and raised.”

“Amen!” Victor says. “Waiter, a vodka, please! And--what do you want?”

Yuuri looks at the empty drinks. How have they managed to finish them already? “Irish coffee,” he shrugs.

The waiter nods and from the corner of Yuuri’s eye, the bartender chooses the correctly colored bottles of liquor and begins to craft their orders.

By the end of the evening, their table is littered with margarita glasses and the half-full bottle of vodka Victor is going to take home for later, or so he says. Yuuri doesn’t want to think about the bill, or how inadequate he is to pay for it.

He must have said this last part aloud, because Victor encircles his hands over Yuuri’s. “You’re not inadequate,” Victor says, flushes in the pale moonlight. “You’re literally perfect.”

Yuuri grabs Victor’s hands in return. “Thank you,” he says, “but you’re Victor Nikiforov. You’re the perfect one, not me.”

“On the contrary.” Victor pulls Yuuri into standing and leans against the railing. Beyond Victor are the lights shone by millions of people, all working together to illuminate his perfect face. “You, Yuuri, are the most perfect person I’ve ever met. Now, this isn’t because you’re actually perfect--you are mortal, I must confess. And what makes you more perfect is that you have flaws, but we work through them, together. For instance, you can’t do a quad in front of anyone but Phichit--”

“Hey,” Yuuri warns. He doesn’t want to think about that.

“But you can do the triple axel in front of me and all the paparazzi in the world, now.” Victor seems to be looking through his eyes, right into his soul.

Yuuri’s breath rushes out of him. “Thank you,” he says. “You’re nothing like Chris.”

Victor squeezes his hand tighter, and Yuuri is aware that once he’s said the one thing he swore he would never say in front of Victor--comparing him to Giacometti like a fool--that he can’t quite stop, and that Victor is perfectly happy to let him continue.

“Chris was like a fling should be, you know?” Yuuri continues. “He didn’t talk about the future, he didn’t talk about me. He was textbook. I thought it was what I wanted, especially at such a stressful time as the GPF--but I was wrong. And then…” Yuuri shrugs.

“What?” Victor leans in. “What happened?”

“You’ve probably heard this from Chris himself,” Yuuri mumbles.

“But I’m not asking Chris, am I,” Victor says solemnly. “I’m not here with Chris, am I. I’m here with you, and I want to hear the story from you.”

Yuuri is so happy he could cry. There is literally nothing in the world he’d rather hear from Victor--well, three words that he’s been dreaming about since he was a child, but he’s not honestly holding out hope of that. He looks away to control his emotions from clouding his glasses.

“I know I’ve held the repercussions of that in my heart for so long, but the actual event wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. The day after the Finals, he comes back and he’s obviously slept somewhere else, with someone else, and I just--snapped. It’s my fault, but it’s also completely not my fault, you know?”

“There is nothing about that that was your fault,” Victor says.

Yuuri nods. “I know that now, I do. But it’s still kind of hard to think that it wasn’t my fault, because I just left without saying anything. And that’s the last I’ve heard from him.”

He feels Victor’s arms around him, and for the second time that day, Victor is hugging him, this time in front of the entire Moon Bar and the entire city, and for the second time that day, Yuuri does not mind one bit.

“Thank you for trusting me with that, Yuuri.” Victor has tears in his eyes. Yuuri wants to treasure this moment forever.

“I would trust everything with you,” slips out of Yuuri’s mouth, and he can never take that back. He freezes, because Victor is a confidante, and a fling, but he can’t be completely prepared for a declaration like that.

Victor must not have registered it, though, through the vodka and the martinis, because he just smiles like he always does and whispers, “I, too, would trust everything with you.”

He leans in to kiss Yuuri on the lips, and they stay like that, embraced on the highest roof in Bangkok, surrounded by the city that Yuuri calls his home.

It’s not Victor’s home, though. Victor will be leaving shortly.

Yuuri leans into the kiss and doesn’t think about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of these places are real, and I have been to none of them, but the Internet tells me they're very nice.
> 
> Question of the chapter: What would be the ideal happy ending for these two?


	8. #noragrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Remember what you said about getting over Otabek?” Yurio hollers brightly.
> 
> Yuuri makes a non-committal noise. “Please tell me you didn’t like--propose to him, or something.”
> 
> “Nope!” Yurio sounds too awake from it still being before noon. “I am prepared to forget about him entirely. Do you know why?”
> 
> “Tell me why,” Yuuri sighs.
> 
> “I got a Grindr account!”
> 
> Yurio now has Yuuri’s full attention. He croaks, “You did what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~it's finally finished wow~~
> 
> also it's titled #noragrets because the title of this piece is regrets of a tour guide but yuuri no longer has any... ignore me i'm a sap

Yuuri wakes to Victor shifting in his sheets, and opens his eyes blearily. The last memory he had was Victor giving him three bottles of water to drink to prevent dehydration and a hangover, and Yuuri’s head doesn’t hurt, but he has to go to the bathroom.

After springing out of bed like a man on the mission and finishing his business, Yuuri walks back into the bedroom to see Victor, fully awake, and naked, spread out on the bed.

Yuuri whistles. “Hey,” he says, adopting a sultry voice.

“Hey, back,” Victor runs his hands up and down the sides of his body as if to emphasize that there is nothing separating Victor’s body from Yuuri’s, if he wishes to.

“I was thinking,” Victor continues, “that even though it’s really too early to wake up, especially on your big day, that you’re awake, and I’m awake, together, and why wouldn’t we want to have some fun on our last day?”

Yuuri leans on the wall. “What do you have in mind?”

Victor springs up, as if every muscle in his body was waiting for this moment. His teeth are in Yuuri’s face, mouth travelling up to Yuuri’s ear, the folds of his body covering him, and Victor whispers, “I want you to fuck me.”

Victor puts a bottle of lube and a condom onto Yuuri’s hands and steps back.

“Well? What do you say to that?” Victor plants his feet wide and lets Yuuri take a look, openmouthed, unable to answer.

Yuuri finally meets Victor’s face again, considerably redder than before. “I’d love to oblige,” Yuuri says. “And since you’re so into asking what I want, we’re going to do this my way.”

“Oh, I love a man that knows what he wants,” Victor says with utter conviction, only betrayed by the way his bushy eyebrows spasm in hidden laughter.

“Oh, shut up,” Yuuri sighs. “But I really do want you on your hands and knees on the bed.”

“Aw, don’t want to look at my face?” Victor asks, doing just that, complying and stretching his body so that his ass is right in Yuuri’s face.

“I just want to see--other parts of you,” Yuuri smiles, feeling up a sizeable portion of Victor’s muscular ass. He shucks his clothes quickly, his own cock getting with the picture as soon as Yuuri puts on the condom and pours the lube into his hands and rolls it around his fingers to warm it up.

One finger in Victor’s white ass, and the man lets out a groan that shakes the walls, quickly directing it into a pillow. That changes the angle of Yuuri’s enveloped finger, sinking more deeply into Victor’s hot hole.

Yuuri hums, twirling a finger around while grabbing his cock with his other hand, generously kneading the lube into his length over the latex, feeling the early pangs of pleasure.

He adds another finger into Victor’s ass and the man clenches up, the muscles so tight around Yuuri’s knuckles.

“Can you do it?” Yuuri asks, pouring more lube around the rim and slicking his fingers in and out.

“It’s just cold,” Victor says, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Are you afraid of a little cold?”

Victor raises his head out of the pillow and glares at Yuuri with the most competitive glare Yuuri has ever seen. “Of course not, Katsuki. Put in another one.”

Yuuri matches the glare. “Of course, Nikiforov.” The third finger is colder than the other two, and Yuuri stretches inside of Victor, relishing the feeling of his spasming muscles as Victor tries, and fails, to stop the clenching and relax.

“Hmm,” Yuuri frowns. “It doesn’t look like you’re doing so well. I think you need a break. Does the great Victor Nikiforov not have what it takes to take a thick cock up his ass?”

“You--ahh--know I do, Yuuri, you literally did it the other day--” Victor protests, and as he twists his face into the pillow, hair sticking to his mouth, a hand skates down to pump his own cock, relieving the pressure.

Yuuri bats his hand away. “Did I say you could help yourself?”

Victor glares at him again, but Yuuri has the upper hand here, sliding three fingers in and out of him with practiced ease. “I guess not,” he mutters, grabbing the pillow with both hands and swaying his hips so the tip of his cock just brushes the bed.

“Oh, look at that,” Yuuri pouts. “You’re making a wet spot on the bed. I bet that doesn’t really let up the pressure, does it? Cloth is no substitute for a good old hand. I bet all it does is aggravate you, having a few fingers that can’t reach so far or fill you up so good, and cloth that just itches your head. Maybe you’d like another finger?”

Before Victor can respond, presumably to say, “Fuck you,” Yuuri adds a fourth finger, twisting his hand around in Victor’s ass, relishing the feeling as the muscles try to clench over the ridges of his knuckles before easing, stretching, allowing him to dig deeper and try harder.

“You ready yet?” Yuuri says. His own cock is bouncing next to his hip, all slicked up and ready to go.

“I would be if I could touch my cock,” Victor says.

Yuuri takes a grip of his ass and slaps it, the sound ringing around the room. Victor moans, his cock scraping across the wet spot in the bed.

“Oh, that sounds almost painful,” Yuuri says, a half grin on his face. “So why are you still arguing with me?”

Victor laughs into his pillow. “Alright, I get it. Now fuck me, please?”

“You got it,” Yuuri says. He takes his fingers out and Victor’s entire body deflates, like it was all held up by Yuuri curling around his prostate. Yuuri takes his slick hands and clenches Victor’s reddening ass, so pert and round, and guides it down onto his cock, sighing as Victor bottoms out without a sound.

“You know,” Victor says, sounding like he’s run a marathon, “I can’t sit on you if you’re standing up. You know that, right?”

“I don’t want you to sit on me,” Yuuri says.

“But you’re not moving.”

“Okay! I’ll move! Fuck off,” Yuuri teases, rolling his hips, still sore from yesterday’s massage, and starting to fuck Victor.

Victor holds his head into the pillow, letting out a string of nonsensical syllables in any language, almost shaking from the effort it took to not touch his leaking cock.

After Yuuri establishes a smooth rhythm, nodding his head to the beat he makes with the slap of his thighs against Victor’s blushing ass, he reaches down and uses both hands to squeeze Victor’s cock.

Victor’s head drops further, and he leans into Yuuri’s lube-coated hands, the pre-come dribbling onto his fingers as he pumps up and down and holds it tightly, feeling the blood fill it out until it might burst.

“You close?” Yuuri asks.

“Take an educated guess, Katsuki,” Victor says, and Yuuri is going to take that as a yes. So he takes one hand and pulls Victor’s cheek open, the other still slamming up and down his cock, and fucks him for all he’s worth.

Victor spills onto the bed, shaking, breaths ragged, slowly coming down from his high. Yuuri follows him into oblivion, feeling his balls clench as he empties out inside him.

Yuuri can feel exhaustion sweep over him even as he can’t stop smiling, pulling out of Victor, throwing the condom away in the trash, and collapsing on the other side of the bed.

Victor clasps Yuuri’s hand in his as he rolls onto his side, pressing their bodies together. Victor leaves a lingering kiss on Yuuri’s cheek, and Yuuri can’t stop smiling.

Yuuri feels himself falling fast to sleep and he is the happiest he’s been in a while, so close to Victor.

“I love you,” Yuuri mumbles. “And I don’t know what to do when you leave.”

He curls up and falls asleep, not realizing that beside him, Victor has gone still.

*

At eleven, Yurio knocks furiously on the hotel door. Yuuri wakes up with no idea where he is or how much time has passed, just knowing that he is still slightly hungover and has many hours before he has to get to the rink for costuming, so Victor slides out of bed.

Victor’s hair is still plastered to his head sideways, and he winces as he pulls the hotel bathrobe over him and cracks open the door. “Hello?” he rasps through it.

Yuuri keeps his eyes closed, cocooned in the heavy blankets and cool air, letting the conversation wash over him.

Yurio taps his foot. “Can I come in?” he asks. “I have something I need to tell Yuuri.”

“Yuuri’s busy. Can I...take a message?”

The tapping stops. “Did I interrupt something?” Yurio says. There’s a second of silence to which Yuuri imagines Victor nodding, or waggling his eyebrows, or making a gesture with his hands, and then Yurio says, “Ew, gross. But I do need to say something to Yuuri. Just...tell him I took his advice.”

Victor turns around and hollers, “Yuuri, your copycat says he took your advice.”

It feels like something died in between Yuuri’s gums. “Thanks, Victor. I heard.”

“Oh, he’s awake?” Yurio asks. “I can elaborate if he can hear me.”

“I can hear you.” Is there going to be a falling back asleep from this? Even if he could, Yuuri just remembered what he told Victor in his embarrassing post-coital state, and he will not be able to close his eyes again without feeling the horror seize his chest up in the fear of ruining everything.

Because Yuuri did just ruin everything, by one slip of the tongue, without knowing it at the time. Has Victor been awake the entire time, thinking about what Yuuri said?

“Remember what you said about getting over Otabek?” Yurio hollers brightly.

Yuuri makes a non-committal noise. “Please tell me you didn’t like--propose to him, or something.”

“Nope!” Yurio sounds too awake from it still being before noon. “I am prepared to forget about him entirely. Do you know why?”

“Tell me why,” Yuuri sighs.

“I got a Grindr account!”

Yurio now has Yuuri’s full attention. He croaks, “You did what?”

*

As soon as Yuuri walks out of the shower, steam trailing behind him, scruffy hair wrapped in a towel, he confronts Yurio again. “You did what?”

Yurio, who has been sitting across from the slightly-more-dressed-than-before Victor for the past fifteen minutes in an awkward silence, both skaters absorbed on their phones, looks up. “I decided to get over my unrequited crush and join the world at large in casual hookups. Like you two.”

Victor almost spits out his Coke. Yuuri fastidiously ignores it.

“But you made yourself an account on Grindr,” Yuuri says. “You. A fifteen-year-old.”

Yurio shrugs with petulance. “The internet doesn’t know I’m fifteen. I’m using someone else’s photos.”

“So now not only are you breaking the law by making an account, you’re catfishing people, too.” A small voice in Yuuri’s head says: Hey, remember when you thought you could make a good impression on the angry boy by giving him well thought-out advice? Yeah, you suck.

“I’m not going to actually use it to meet anyone in real life,” Yurio says. “I just want to admire them. Not in person.”

Victor’s face looks peculiarly like someone who has just chomped down on an especially tart lemon and returns to staring at his phone like it holds all the answers in the world. What a wonderful father figure.

“Yurio,” Yuuri starts the voice still screaming YOU SUCK on a loop in his brain, “I’m glad you’re being proactive in making the decision that’s best for you and Otabek. But this is not a good idea. You’re playing everyone you might meet there, which is not only illegal, but unethical.”

“Well, you’re no fun. Glad I’m leaving this fucking place tonight.”

Yuuri glances at Victor. “Tonight? I thought you left tomorrow.”

Victor tries to meet him in the eyes and fails. Just hours ago, they were happy, melding together as one, and now Yuuri has fucked everything up by bringing feelings into the mix. “It was tomorrow,” Victor says softly. “Our plans changed.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. His voice is so small in the echo of the spacious hotel room. “I see.”

“We can stay through your performance, but only just,” Victor says.

The voice in Yuuri’s ear now says: How long has he known? Why has he waited to tell me?

Yuuri looks at the carpet. He is so thankful that there are no tears in his eyes. He couldn’t handle an outburst of emotion, not after this morning.

“Do whatever you want,” Yuuri says quickly, standing up and gathering his things he threw across the room so haphazardly last night. “I could care less. After all, you’re leaving, and you won’t be my problem any more.”

Yurio doesn’t respond as Yuuri pockets his phone and wallet, tearing the towel from his hair and launching it across the room.

Victor just watches Yuuri with his unknowable eyes.

“I’m leaving,” Yuuri says curtly. “I will see you at the performance. Or not. You may want to get to your flight tonight early.”

As he walks out of the hotel room with his head high, he hears Yurio scoff, “You’re just going to let him leave?”

As Yuuri presses the button for the elevator half a million times, he thinks he can hear Victor’s voice faintly, saying, “I don’t let Yuuri do anything. He can leave if he wants.”

“You’re damn right I can leave if I want,” Yuuri growls, stalking into the empty elevator. “You’re damn fucking right.”

But as the doors close around him and it begins the quick descent to the ground floor, Yuuri just looks at his feet and sighs, all fight draining out of him. All he wants is Victor, and he told him so, too. Does Victor really not care at all for him, after that?

*

Yuuri is on the third commercial break on an episode of the unknown Thai drama on TV when there’s a knock on his apartment door. He checks his watch: still three hours before he has to be at costuming.

He stands and wades through the mess of his apartment: dishes spread out over the couch and floor, books and newspapers and CDs and souvenirs stacked in rough piles, evidence of a month spent mostly at the Shangri-La and a disinterest in the normal routine of his home. Yuuri has lived the last few weeks in a stupor, a trance, where he hasn’t been able to discern that real life doesn’t involve wild romantic flings, but now he thinks he can see the end of the tunnel.

Yuuri opens the door to see Phichit.

“Why do you have a poncho on?” Yuuri squints, opening it up to let his friend in.

Phichit tears off the bright pink poncho. “It’s been raining outside for the last hour, didn’t you notice?”

Yuuri gestures to his curtains: down.

Phichit looks around his place. “Wow, this is more terrible than I thought.”

“Than you thought? What did you think? And why did you think? Why are you here, Phichit?”

“I’m here because Victor texted me. He sounded pretty concerned for a Russian whose English spelling is limited. He wrote: Take Care of Yuuri At His Place. Now, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

“A smart one,” Yuuri folds his arms. “I’m fine. I don’t need to be taken care of.”

“That’s what I told him,” Phichit winks, “but I said I would come over here and check anyways. The performance is tonight--is it anxiety?”

“No.” The last few times he thought about the performance, it’s only in passing, and he hasn’t thought about his triple axel in a week. “It’s not that.”

Phichit helps himself to a Coke from Yuuri’s mini fridge, and that is such an American move that Yuuri is floored--all at once he remembers Detroit, the smog that covered the city, looking at the conglomeration of towers in the skyline with his roommate, the man who lounges across from him now.

They are both members of multiple cultures, having travelled across the great expanse of the Motor City and beyond. They both adapted to another language with difficulty, giving up the ease of living at home to develop the skill needed to propel them to a larger goal.

Yuuri has laughed and cried with Phichit, studied and practiced with him, watched movies and played games. He has spent more time with Phichit than anyone else, and Phichit is here with him right now, in his apartment, because Phichit cares about him.

So Yuuri confesses.

“It’s Victor. I told him that I was interested in more than just a casual hookup, that I don’t want him to leave, and he hasn’t really spoken to me since.”

On the TV behind Phichit, the soap opera star gasps at something in utter shock, and Phichit’s expression mirrors her perfectly. “He’s giving you the cold shoulder?”

“No, I think he just didn’t know and he’s trying to get out quick. Which he can, because he’s leaving tonight instead of tomorrow.” Yuuri sinks back onto his couch in despair. “This is why I didn’t tell him earlier.”

“You didn’t tell him because you were afraid he’d react like this, but at least now you know,” Phichit says. “I’m so proud of you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri smiles. “Thanks, Phichit.”

“And if Victor doesn’t come around, I’ll yell at him myself,” Phichit confides in him.

“You? Yell?”

Phichit puffs up his chest in mock arrogance. “I’m more American than you think, Katsuki. I can handle one Russian skater, even if he is the world champion and I asked him over here in the first place.”

“So technically, the troubles of my love life are all your fault,” Yuuri says, and there’s a weird sensation on his face for the first time in several hours. He may be smiling.

“Keep thinking that,” Phichit laughs in return. “Now, is this rejection going to affect your performance tonight?”

“Of course not,” Yuuri assures him. “Our performance is about the unbreakable bond of friendship, which is strengthened in such times of need. I will be ready.”

“Wow, Katsuki, the fount of all wisdom,” Phichit nods. “I like it. See you at four thirty?”

Yuuri glances at the wall. It’s only one p.m., and Phichit is the only thing he can lean on right now. “Actually, do you want to watch a soap opera with me until we have to leave?”

He’s never seen Phichit more excited. It may be the sugar rush.

“I would love to.”

*

Four thirty on the dot, and the locker rooms of the skating rink are full of skaters in lavish red and orange outfits, trailing lace and feathers from their bodies. Yuuri can’t go a foot without someone bumping razor-sharp blades into him. Phichit emerges from the communal showers behind him, finishing his in-depth reflection on the soap opera he has been telling Yuuri since they left his house an hour ago.

“In short, I think I know who’s going to be murdered--Yuuri? Yuuri, are you listening to me?”

Yuuri stops dead in his tracks, clutching the towel around his waist so it doesn’t fall off. At the end of the locker room, like an angel descended from heaven, stands Victor Nikiforov, bathed in a golden glow, with Yurio standing right behind him like a snarky sidekick.

Yuuri looks around the room. Did Victor come for Phichit? Is Phichit about to yell at him like he promised?

But all Phichit does is stop in the middle of his explanation, as if he could care less who the foreshadowing pointed to being killed, and smiles at Yuuri. He winks at him too, like his eyebrows are trying to communicate something in sign language, and gives him two thumbs ups.

Yuuri turns to Victor. “Just a second, I’m going to put on some clothes for my conversation.”

Victor leans on the locker next to his as Yuuri tears off his towel and methodically puts on his costume. He intentionally doesn’t look at Victor, doesn’t care where roaming eyes wander.

Victor doesn’t say anything, and Yuuri notices that he’s actually gotten dressed since this morning. Has it really only been less than a day since they’ve been apart? To Yuuri, it’s felt like--well, not ages, but at least two days.

Yuuri pulls on the last of his outfit and nods to Victor. “Okay, we can go talk.”

They end up standing by the vending machine, ice cold drinks staring at them as Yuuri looks everywhere but Victor.

“I don’t want this to be awkward,” Yuuri says. “But I understand.”

“Really? What do you understand, Yuuri?”

“I understand that you just came here to help on a whim, and you didn’t sign up for anything more than just helping me, and you had a bit of fun, and now you’re done. I get it. I don’t want to ruin that. I’m sorry I said anything.”

Yuuri tries to disappear into the vending machine. He feels Victor’s ice-cold hand on his shoulder and finally looks the man in the eye.

“That’s not what I think at all,” Victor says. “I like you too, Yuuri.”

“Really? Because that’s not the feeling I got this morning.”

“I didn’t know what to say this morning. I was thinking about the logistics of everything. I’m leaving tonight, Yuuri, and I’m going back to train Yurio for the Grand Prix. I have a life that’s separate from you and the Phichit! On Ice show, and I didn’t expect to get entangled in this life, that’s true. I’ll admit it. But I’m so open to staying entangled in this life because I care about you. I’ve never done a long distance relationship before, and I needed time to make a plan. But I realized that I never actually told you any of this, and I rushed over here after Phichit made it abundantly clear over the phone that I fucked up.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what his face is doing. It might be a laugh. It might be a cry. “Phichit convinced you to come, huh.”

“No. Phichit just reminded me that I’m not the only one with feelings at stake here, and I decided to come and share my feelings with you. At just the right time, I see.”

Yuuri feels his cheek with the palm of his hand: burning up.

“Well,” he says, “I thought I lost you forever. I thought you didn’t want to see me again. I’m glad I’m wrong.”

“I’m glad you’re wrong, too.” Victor pulls him in for a hug, and Yuuri stays like that, enveloped in the smell of Victor’s cologne.

Phichit’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker. “Final dress rehearsal starts in five minutes. All skaters, in your positions please.”

Yuuri pulls away from Victor. “I’m not going to see you again here,” he says. “I have rehearsal and then a performance and then you leave.”

“I’ll call you when I land,” Victor assures him.

“But how are we going to sustain a relationship when you’re in Russia and I’m in Thailand?”

“We’ll figure it out. I made up diagrams. Several complicated diagrams.”

Yuuri smiles. “I need to see them.”

“It involves Skyping to talk and also just to exist with each other nearby,” Victor says in a rush. “I read online that people sometimes just go about their day while being connected to someone else, so that they can just coexist, and Katsuki Yuuri, I would love to coexist with you.”

Even though it is less than five minutes until Yuuri’s dress rehearsal and the premiere performance of the biggest event of his lifetime, Yuuri pulls Victor in for one last kiss--sloppy and impassioned and the best he’s ever had.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Yuuri says. “But I know that you have to, and I think we can work through this.”

Victor squeezes his hands. “I’ll raise you one: I know that we can get through this. You’re going to do amazingly, Yuuri. And I’ll watch you, and I’ll applaud for you, and I’ll even get Yurio to acknowledge how good you are, too.”

“Take care of him,” Yuuri says. “Seriously. He needs a good role model.”

Victor might be crying, too. “I will,” he says. “Now, Yuuri. Go off to your rehearsal, and make it the best one you’ve ever had.”

Yuuri nods, grabs his skates in his hand, and lines up by the entrance to the rink. He turns, and takes a second to study Victor for possibly the last time now.

Victor stands, leaning on the vending machine, studying Yuuri with that same look, like he’s so hungry he needs to commit every aspect about him to memory.

They will work through this, because they believe in each other, no matter what comes.

“Victor?” Yuuri grins. “See you on the other side.”

And he turns and walks toward the best performance of his life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question of the chapter: what (fic) would you like to see from me next? Any prompts?
> 
> [Tumblr](http://www.billpottses.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave feedback and [reblog the tumblr post](http://billpottses.tumblr.com/tagged/yuri%20on%20ice%20fic)!


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